This Wasn't in the Brochure
by otahyoni
Summary: Hobbie Klivian and Wes Janson are on vacation. The bad guys aren't. Set one year after the Hand of Thrawn duology.
1. 01

**Summary:** Hobbie and Wes are on vacation. The bad guys aren't.

Thanks to hmyrie and nyohah for the beta.

* * *

**This Wasn't in the Brochure**

**01.**

Hobbie Klivian pressed his fingertips against the skin of his arm, watching it flash white before fading back to red.

"I think I have a sunburn already," he said.

A meter to his left, Wes Janson grunted without opening his eyes and waved a lazy hand in the air. "Put on more of that stuff."

Hobbie picked up the bottle of sunblock lying next to him and squinted at the label. It was the strongest he could find, but it was obviously no match for the Soleran sun. He looked back at Wes. They'd only been on Soler for twelve hours, at the beach resort for ten, and on the actual beach for two, but already Wes looked several shades darker. Hobbie hadn't realized it was possible to tan that quickly, but he figured if anyone in the galaxy had mastered a useless skill like mentally controlling his melanin production, it was Wes Janson.

He pushed himself into a sitting position so he could see his legs. They stared angrily back at him. If he stayed out here much longer—mega sunblock or no—his skin would match the stripes on his X-wing.

"I'm going to get one of those tent things before I burst into flames," he said, standing.

"Ooh!" Wes opened his eyes and tilted his head back to look up at Hobbie. "Get some food! I'm starving."

"Fine." Hobbie brushed the sand off the back of his legs, aiming for Wes's face. Rewarded with a grunt and a sputter, he set off toward the food stands lining the top of the beach.

Focused on weaving through families of all species and not stepping on any of the myriad knee-high children determined to play in the sand directly beneath his feet, Hobbie didn't see the woman until he'd slammed into her.

She bounced off his chest, nearly dropping the beach bag in her arms, and his sunburned skin protested at the sudden impact. He hissed.

The woman's head snapped up, and she tried to extract the arm she'd buried elbow-deep in her bag. "Oh!" she cried, taking a step back. "I'm _so _sor—"

She tripped on a toddler and, with her arms still tangled in her bag, couldn't catch her balance.

Hobbie caught her elbow in one hand, and the other slipped around her waist to keep her from falling. His hand settled against the small of her back, and he froze.

Beneath his fingers lay something solid, something that wasn't clothing or flesh or bone. Something that, from its size and shape, could be a vibroblade.

He dropped his hands and stepped back, looking at her more closely. She only stood a centimeter or two shorter than him, trim and toned. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, and her skin seemed to welcome the sun rather than fight it. She was pretty rather than exceptionally beautiful, the kind of woman he'd generally feel he had a shot with. Wes aimed high; Hobbie aimed rational.

Her gaze—sharper, he thought, than it had been a moment ago—swept him from head to foot. When her eyes met his again, she gave him a bashful smile, and the sharpness was gone. If not for the remembered feel of a vibroblade sheath pressing against his fingers, Hobbie would have thought he'd imagined it.

"Thank you," she said. "I'm so sorry for bumping into you. I was trying to find my sunlenses and forgot to pay attention to where I was going."

"Don't worry about it. I'm surprised we have enough room to stand."

She smiled again, looking down and then back up, exuding shy flirtation. Hobbie's toes curled into the sand as his muscles tensed.

"Well," she said, shifting to the side. "I suppose I should…"

"Right." Hobbie tried to back up, but there was nowhere to go. The woman slid past him, her bag held between them like a barrier as they twisted around each other. Once they'd switched places, she turned to leave, then stopped and looked over her shoulder.

"You should probably put on some sunblock, soldier."

Hobbie watched her leave, picking her way across the sand with a grace that came naturally to actresses, dancers, and people with a certain degree of combat training. She disappeared into the crowd of beach-goers, and Hobbie relaxed.

A child's inflatable ball bounced off the side of his head, and he sighed. Even his scalp felt sunburned.

* * *

It took him almost an hour to rent a sun tent, find food, and drag it all back to where Wes lay. Wes had rolled onto his stomach but otherwise didn't seem to have moved.

Hobbie dropped the sack of food on his friend's back and wrestled the main pole of the tent into the sand.

"Mmph," Wes said, twisting an arm around his back and snagging the food. "What'd you get us?"

"Sandwiches. You owe me ten credits." Satisfied at the pole's stability, Hobbie crouched and set his finger on the expand button at its base. "Watch out."

He pressed the button, then fell over backward as four arms shot out of the main pole and arced straight up, dragging a layer of fabric with them and nearly taking off his head. The arms locked perpendicular to the center pole, fabric quivering between them. Secondary stabilizers fell from the tent's arms and planted themselves in the sand. Wes yelped and rolled out of the way as one of the stabilizers landed where his shoulder had been.

Hobbie looked up at the two-meter square awning above his head, then down at the shaded area it created on the sand. He smiled.

"Sithspit!" Wes sputtered, eyeing the tent from his hands and knees. One hand still gripped the sack of food. "You nearly impaled me."

"Then I could have eaten your sandwich." Hobbie spread his towel in the marvelous, beautiful shade and lay down. He swore he felt his skin sigh.

"You were gone for ages," Wes said through a mouthful of food. "Did you get lost? I'm sure we can rig up some sort of homing device so you can find your way around without me."

The shade felt too blissful for Hobbie to bother rising to the bait. "Just lots of people. I don't think you could find a more crowded place if you dedicated your entire life to the search."

He heard Wes flop onto his back. "Great, isn't it?" he said with that particular tone of voice that meant he was pleased with himself. "I don't understand those people who want to go somewhere _quiet _for vacation."

"You wouldn't."

"Quiet is not fun. Have you ever done anything _quiet_ that was fun?"

"Probably."

"Like what? Because stakeouts aren't fun, at least not the quiet part. And hyperspace? Ugh. Sleeping is necessary, sure, but I wouldn't call it fun, and I know for a fact you don't sleep quietly. I wish you did."

Hobbie smiled. This shade was miraculous. It even made Janson less annoying.

"And anything fun you do with a woman _shouldn't _be quiet. Though—" Wes's voice took on a rare thoughtfulness Hobbie usually found terrifying. "—I suppose if it were _secret_, like if your wingman came home unexpectedly, and you had to hide in the closet and—"

"Please stop," Hobbie said. "I'm on vacation."

Even miracles had their limits.

"You're being quiet. We've just established how much I hate quiet. You're supposed to entertain me."

"Fine." Hobbie rolled onto his side and propped his head on his hand. "Speaking of women—"

"I like this story already." Wes sat up and shoved half his sandwich in his mouth.

"I bumped into a woman earlier. I think she had a vibroblade."

Wes swallowed and made a show of looking around. "Sounds like my kind of woman. Where'd she go?"

"Doesn't that strike you as strange? Why would she have a vibroblade at the beach?"

"How do you know it was a vibroblade? It was probably her comlink."

Hobbie paused. He hadn't thought of that. "Weird place to carry a comlink, though."

Wes rolled his eyes. "You're the only person I know who, when they bump into a beautiful woman in a romantic setting like this, instantly assumes she's an assassin."

"But she tagged me as military."

"Hobbie, a four-year-old would know you're military."

"You're not at all suspicious?"

Wes set his sandwich on his knee. "Okay, let's pretend it was a vibroblade. Maybe she's just paranoid and carries it for protection, to make herself feel better. She's probably never even turned it on."

Hobbie pushed himself into a sitting position. "But weapons are illegal on Soler. That's a big risk for some peace of mind. And I don't think that's it. She didn't feel like—"

"You felt her?"

"Focus. I don't think she was just a tourist. I think she carries a vibroblade because she knows how to use it. She's a professional of some sort."

Wes sighed. "Look, she was probably one of Cracken's people here for the same reason we are—to get a tan. Or, in your case, to test the limits of bacta in the area of skin re-growth."

"And if she's not?"

"I stand by my comlink theory, but even if you're right, what can you do about it?" Wes spread his arms, indicating the packed beach. "You'll never find her again in this."

Hobbie collapsed on his back and stared up the tent awning. Wes was right. An intelligence agent, whether on leave or on a mission, fit. It still didn't feel right, but twenty years' worth of people trying to kill him had probably made him paranoid. There was nothing he could do about it, anyway. He had no way of tracking her down in Soler's tourism hub.

"Relax, all right?" Wes said. "This is our first real leave in years. I refuse to spend it chasing imaginary bad guys."

"Right," Hobbie said. "Okay."

"Good. That's settled." Wes bounced to his feet. "Race you to the water!"

* * *

The club was definitely not quiet, which meant Wes was having a great time.

He could feel the bass from the dance floor on the upper level pound in his chest, and he wondered how much liquor it would take to get Hobbie up there. He signaled the bartender to make their whiskeys double, and then leaned against the bar and surveyed the crush of humans and aliens all around him. The club, like Soler in general, was crowded, noisy, and tacky.

Wes loved it.

A woman in a tiny dress squeezed herself into the miniscule patch of air at his side and waved down the bartender. She shouted her order in his ear, then turned to Wes. He smiled. She looked him up and down and gave him a decidedly inviting smile in return.

The bartender slammed his drinks on the bar, and Wes picked them up. He winked at the woman and pushed his way into the throng.

Hobbie guarded a table against the wall, trying not to look miserable. As Wes approached, he watched his friend fend off a pair of Ishori, wrestling the empty chair away from them. The Ishori brushed by Wes on their way to steal someone else's chair, and he set the drinks on the table with a _thunk_.

"We're never going to attract any female company if you keep looking like your best friend just died." He spread his arms. "Especially as he obviously hasn't."

Hobbie straightened in his chair, plastering a bright look on his face. "Oh, did Wedge call you?"

Wes placed a hand on his chest. "That hurts. Especially after all the effort I went through to get you a drink. I nearly lost a limb." He picked up his glass and took a swig, then coughed. "Waste of a limb."

"That bad?"

"That cheap."

Hobbie made a face and his eyes wandered the club's interior. Wes squinted at his glass, trying to decide if what he'd paid for it justified forcing himself to drink it. He'd had worse, and terrible alcohol was still alcohol.

Before he could make up his mind, Hobbie tapped his arm and nodded behind him. Wes turned. The girl from the bar was navigating through a large group of Sullustans and definitely heading their direction.

He smiled. "Oh, I'm good."

He stood as she approached with two tall glasses filled with red liquid in her hands.

"Hi," she said, wearing that same inviting smile. "I'm Seline."

"Hi, Seline."

Her eyes slid to Hobbie. "Oh, good. There's two of you. My friend Racha is just over there." She tilted her head to the right. "Like to join us?"

"Well—" Hobbie said.

"Absolutely," Wes said, louder. "Lead the way."

He hauled Hobbie out of his chair by the arm.

"Ouch!" Hobbie yelped. "Easy on the sunburn."

"Stop whining." Wes shoved one of the whiskeys in his hand, and set out after Seline as she swayed through the crowd. She turned every few steps to give him an encouraging smile, which he returned.

Halfway across the club, Hobbie grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, spilling most of his whiskey on his shoes. He swore and glared at his friend, who was staring into the depths of the club.

"What?" Wes shouted over the noise of the crowd. He turned and saw Seline disappear behind two large men. They didn't have time for this. "She's getting away."

Hobbie gestured with his glass. "She's here."

"Who's here?"

"The woman from the beach. The one with the vibroblade."

"You mean comlink?" Wes looked the direction Hobbie indicated, then realized he had no idea what the woman looked like and stopped straining his neck. "So?"

"She's heading for the back of the club. Come on." Hobbie pressed his glass of whiskey into a bystander's hand and strode into the mass of beings.

"Hobbie!" Wes hollered. "_Hobbie!_"

He looked over his shoulder. Seline had come back and waved when she spotted him. Wes watched Hobbie's quickly disappearing back. He sighed, gave Seline an apologetic shrug, and followed his friend.

* * *

**Usual disclaimers apply:** Not mine. Non-profit organization.

* * *


	2. 02

**02.**

Hobbie paused at the entrance to the narrow hallway that led to the club's refreshers and waited for Wes, who arrived a few seconds later.

"This better be good," Wes said. He noticed where they were and frowned. "You followed the poor girl to the 'fresher?"

"She didn't go the 'fresher." Hobbie pointed at a nondescript door at the very end of the hall. "She went into the employees-only storage."

"Maybe she's an employee," Wes said hopefully.

Hobbie shook his head. "I don't think so. She wasn't wearing a uniform like the bartender."

"Then maybe she's _meeting_ an employee."

Hobbie straightened. "Yeah. Maybe." He stared at the door, unable to move back into the club's crush.

"Have you always been this paranoid and I just never noticed, or is it a new vacation thing? Some sort of coping mechanism for the lack of daily danger?" Wes sipped at the whiskey he still held, made a face, and set the glass on the ground. "What are you going to do when we get back and actually retire?"

"What are _you_ going to do?" Hobbie retorted.

Wes just shrugged, because really, that was the question. Neither of them had expected to live long enough to see the war actually end. In two weeks, it would be a year since the treaty had been signed, and he, Wes, Wedge, Tycho, and several others who'd been there since the beginning were formally retiring from active military service.

Hobbie leaned against the wall, his eyes still on the door, and tried to imagine his life without firefights, explosions, and mysterious beach assassins. It was a lot harder than he liked.

One of the bartenders pushed past them carrying a crate of empty liquor bottles and entered the storage room. He left the door open, and Hobbie watched him set the crate next to a shelving unit and replace the empty bottles with full.

He was the only person in the room. A small window in the back wall near the ceiling hung loosely in its frame.

Hobbie looked at Wes. "Well?"

"You win," Wes said. "Your suspicious woman is actually suspicious."

The bartender, restocked crate propped on one hip, closed the storage room door and gave them a polite smile as he walked past them.

Hobbie looked at Wes, who nodded, and they moved down the hallway. Hobbie reached for the door handle just as a woman came out of the ladies' 'fresher. He froze, but she barely glanced at them as she made her way back into the club.

He slipped into the storage room, Wes right behind him, and shut the door. Several wine crates had already been stacked beneath the window, and he and Wes had an informal staring contest to determine who would go first.

"She's your mystery," Wes said, crossing his arms.

"Fine." Hobbie climbed onto the crates and peered out the window. He couldn't see much beyond duracrete and the wall of a neighboring building. "Why do these things always happen in dark alleys?"

"I miss my blaster."

Hobbie pushed open the window, took a deep breath, and stuck his head outside. When no one shot him, he heaved himself through, landing in a sprawled mess.

"Move," Wes hissed, and Hobbie scrambled out of the way. Wes jumped through the window, landing in a smooth crouch. Hobbie ignored his smug grin and pushed himself to his feet.

The alley ended in a rough wall to their right, so Hobbie moved left, trying to keep to the darker shadows near the club. After about thirty meters, they reached a junction with another alley running perpendicular to theirs. Hobbie paused, trying to decide which way to go. He looked at Wes, who shrugged.

Turning left would lead them back to the main street. If the woman had gone that direction, they'd never find her anyway. Which meant going straight or turning right. Unfortunately, that still left a fifty percent chance of choosing wrong.

Then he heard voices coming from the right. He tilted his head that direction, Wes acknowledged, and they moved down the alley to the right as quietly as they could. The rooftop heating unit of one of the buildings next to them needed maintenance, and its rattling covered any sound they made. A dozen meters in, the voices were clear enough to understand despite the heating unit's racket, and Hobbie stopped, crouching at the base of the wall behind a dumpster, its sour smell sharpened by Soler's traditional _hakra_ spice. He felt Wes at his back and turned his attention to the conversation happening a few meters away.

"The final shipment arrives tomorrow," the first voice said. A deep voice, probably belonging to something big. Hobbie tried to crouch lower.

"How long will construction take?" asked a second voice.

"Only a day or two. Another day for programming. We could move up our timetable—"

"No. It stays as is. Boss likes the irony. He thinks it's the perfect way to celebrate the galaxy's newest holiday."

Hobbie stiffened. He didn't like the sound of that.

He liked even less the sound of footsteps behind him. Lots of footsteps.

He really missed his blaster.

"Don't move," a gruff voice behind him said. Hobbie obeyed. "Hey, Shin!" the man yelled. "You've got some eavesdroppers."

"Stand up," a different voice said. "Turn around."

Hobbie slowly rose to his feet, his hands near his head. To his right, Wes did the same. Four men stood in front of them, blasters trained on their chests. The two from the conversation quickly joined the group, making six blasters. Hobbie stopped missing his blaster and started missing his X-wing.

"This is the worst vacation ever," Wes said.

"Shut up." The man with the gruff voice waved his blaster. "Shin?"

The smaller of the conversationalists lit a glowrod and shone it in Hobbie's face, then Wes's. "Well, well. You boys recognize our snoops?"

The man furthest to Hobbie's right whistled. "How's that for luck? Two of them Rogue Squadron types."

"So what?" another said. "Doesn't change anything."

Something moved in the darkness beyond the line of blasters, a shadow unwinding itself from the fire escape across the alley. Hobbie squinted, wondering if it was just a residual pattern from the glare of the glowrod.

"Actually," Shin said, "it changes everything."

The shadow moved again, taking human shape just as its boots smashed into the heads of the two center thugs. One of them careened toward Hobbie, and he grabbed the man's wrist, wrenching the blaster barrel away from his chest as the man's weight sent them both to the ground. Hobbie grunted at the impact, vaguely aware of shouts and blaster shots above him. The man on top of him, barely conscious, convulsed once and went limp. Hobbie pulled the blaster from his hand and shoved the body off of him, noting the smoking wound in the man's back as he scrambled to his feet.

He raised his blaster and watched the shadow woman flick her wrist, sending a vibroblade into the neck of the last of the six men. The other four were already on the ground.

Hobbie glanced sideways and saw Wes stand with a blaster in his own hand, the man he'd taken it from lying at his feet with a hole in his back.

His eyes only left the woman for a fraction of a second, but in that time, she'd produced two blasters and trained one on each of them. Shin's glowrod lay a meter away, still lit, casting enough light on the area for Hobbie to see her face.

It was the woman from the beach, the woman they'd followed here. Her clothes, though dark and clearly functional, were also stylish; she'd looked just as at home in the club as she did in this alley. Dark spots marred one side of her face. Blood, he realized.

And she'd just taken out six armed men in less than ten seconds.

"Are you Remembrance?" she asked.

"No," Wes said. "At least, I don't think so."

"Are they Remembrance?" Hobbie asked, gesturing at the dead men lying around them.

The woman nodded.

"What's Remembrance?" he asked.

"A terrorist organization."

"Oh, great," Wes said. "I love those."

She narrowed her eyes, and Hobbie quickly said, "He's kidding. He does that. You can't take anything he says seriously." From the corner of his eye, he could see Wes nodding, his aim steady. "We're not Remembrance. We're New Republic. I'm—"

"I just wanted to know if I should shoot you or not," she said. "I know who you are."

"Good. That'll save time." Wes raised his blaster, altering his aim. "We can skip straight to the part where you tell us who you are."

"That doesn't matter."

Hobbie shook his head. "You're pointing blasters at us. It definitely matters."

She looked at them each for another second, then lowered her weapons. "Karoly."

Hobbie let his arm fall to his side and saw Wes do the same. As his adrenaline began to subside, he realized his right shoulder throbbed in protest at taking the brunt of his fall. He rubbed it with his free hand and said, "Thank you, Karoly. I don't think we would have liked how tonight ended if you hadn't stepped in."

She slipped her blasters beneath her jacket. "What did you think you were doing?" Her voice, so emotionless before, sharpened. "You just ruined a month's worth of investigation. They'll hole up now, and it'll take me days to find their trail again. By then, I might be too late to stop them."

"Whoops?" Wes offered.

"We didn't know we were going to run into a pack of trigger-happy thugs," Hobbie said. "We were just following you. I saw you in the club." Her eyes widened and she looked away, but when she didn't say anything, Hobbie asked, "Investigating what? Are you NRI?"

She bent and pulled her vibroblade from the last man's neck. "We need to go," she said, straightening. The blade disappeared up her sleeve. "Street's this way."

She started walking, and after exchanging a look and a shrug with Wes, Hobbie followed. "You didn't answer my question," he said, trotting to catch up to her.

Karoly shook her head. "I'm not NRI. And I won't tell you who I do work for, so don't bother asking."

"That doesn't seem fair," Wes said. "You know who we work for."

"I can't help that. Everyone knows who you work for. Just believe me when I say we're not on opposing sides."

"Are there sides?" Hobbie asked.

Karoly shrugged.

They paused at the alley's entrance. Hobbie straightened his shirt, dusted gravel off his trousers, and made sure his hair wasn't sticking up too badly. The skin of his back hummed, still angry at the abuse it had taken as he extracted himself from underneath the dead man. He slipped his new blaster into his waistband and made sure it was relatively unnoticeable. The last thing he needed tonight was to be arrested for possession of an illegal weapon.

He looked at Karoly, who had unzipped her jacket, revealing a shimmering, violet top. She pulled her hair from its restraint at the base of her head and ran her fingers through it, transforming herself into another patron of Soler's nightlife.

Except for the blood still spattered across one side of her face.

"Um," he said, gesturing toward his own face, "you've got—"

She touched her cheek and frowned at her stained fingertips, then pulled a small handkerchief out of a pocket and wiped the blood away. "Thanks," she said. She looked toward the alley's exit. "I'm going to leave you here. I'll make sure you don't see me again, but if—by some fluke—you do, _don't follow me_." She turned toward the glow of the main street.

"Wait," Hobbie said, catching her arm. "First tell us about this Remembrance group. It sounds like something the New Republic should know about."

"They probably do." She moved back, her arm magically slipping from Hobbie's grasp, but Wes took a step forward and gripped her other wrist.

"But we don't," he said, "and after having half a dozen blasters pointed at our heads, we have a personal interest in them. Indulge us."

"I would think, after tonight, that _you_ owe _me_, not the other way around."

"Add it to our tab," Wes said.

Karoly measured them both for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. But let's get off the street. Are you staying on the beach? Let's go there."

Wes grinned but wisely refrained from innuendo. Hobbie figured the image of the six dead men behind them was as fresh in Wes's brain as it was in his.

* * *

They left the alley, blending with the night revelers thronging Soler's streets, and Karoly D'ulin wondered how much she'd regret agreeing to tell these pilots about Remembrance. She knew she _would_ regret it. As soon as she realized just who'd followed her into that alley, she'd known.

But she'd already agreed. She couldn't back out now.

If she'd just been more careful today, she wouldn't be in this mess. Shin and his lackey would have finished their conversation, and she might know exactly what Remembrance had planned. She might know who their leader was or how to find him.

Two mistakes. Two mistakes in one day, maybe ruining everything. Karoly wanted to hit something. She hadn't been this sloppy in years.

First, Klivian had found her knife. She'd just wanted a closer look, to make sure it was him, but she'd tripped on a child and blown her cover enough to make him curious. Which led to her second mistake—letting him spot her in the club.

And now there were six dead men in the alley behind her, announcing to Remembrance that someone was on to them, and two maddeningly persistent pilots following her back to their resort.

"So why'd you knock those two guys into us?" the shorter one, Janson, asked. "We could have lent you a hand."

She looked sideways at him. "Could you?"

He frowned. "Hey!"

She shook her head. "I didn't mean it like that. You were meter and a half from the nearest mark. You never could have reached them without getting yourselves killed, even with any distraction I could have caused. So I sent them to you. They kept you from getting hit by any stray blaster bolts, and also kept you out of my way."

"So the blaster shots they took were meant for us?" Klivian asked, looking like this was the worst news he'd ever heard.

"No. They were meant for them."

"Oh." His face drooped even more. Karoly resisted the urge to ask if he was okay.

They didn't speak the rest of the way to the resort. Janson opened the door to their room with a keycard and ushered her inside with an exaggeratedly gallant gesture.

"Sit?" Klivian asked, waving toward a chair.

Karoly shook her head. "No, thank you. I won't stay long. Can we just get right to it?"

Janson sat on the edge of the bed and snickered, and Klivian smacked his arm.

Karoly hoped she wouldn't be forced to kill them after all. "Remembrance started as a group protesting the peace treaty between the New Republic and the Empire."

"From which side?" Klivian asked.

"They're anti-Empire. They think the New Republic has forgotten the atrocities the Empire committed. They on the other hand, remember."

"So where'd they get the name Remembrance?" Janson asked.

"Ignore him," Klivian said.

Karoly crossed her arms. "A few months ago, we heard that—"

"This is the 'we' we're not allowed to know about?" Janson asked.

"Yes. We heard Remembrance might not be content just remembering anymore. We think they're planning something more…aggressive."

Janson frowned. "On Soler? It's just a tourism planet."

"It's neutral," Karoly said, "which means there are no significant New Republic or Imperial forces here. Soler's peacekeeping department is notoriously lax. It's the perfect place for a peaceful protest group to make their transition to violence."

"What are they going to hit?" Klivian asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Karoly answered, "but from what I've heard, my bet's on the Imperial embassy. The Empire and New Republic each have a small presence here to serve their vacationing citizens. The Remembrance cell on this world would like nothing better than to see the Imperials gone, I'm sure."

"And you're here to stop them?" Janson asked, looking skeptical.

"That's right."

"All by yourself?"

She nodded.

Janson stood. "Well, that's just stupid. We'll help." He looked at the other pilot. "Won't we, Hobbie?"

Klivian sighed. "I don't suppose we can get out if it, now."

"Don't act like this is my fault." Janson pointed at Klivian, sighting down his finger like it was a blaster. "You got us into this."

"You don't have to be 'into' anything," Karoly said. "I'm giving you a free pass to ignore everything I just told you. Don't be idiots."

"We're not idiots," Janson said.

"We just act like idiots most of the time," Klivian added.

Janson nodded. "There's a difference. And we're involved in this now, whether you like it or not."

"Look," Karoly said, forcing her exasperation back behind Mistryl neutrality. Dealing with these two was giving her a headache. "I don't need or want your help. Just forget about all this and—" She made an awkward gesture with her hands, waving at the air between the two pilots. "—enjoy your time together. I can take care of this."

Janson shook his head. "Absolutely not. We can't just—wait, what?" He looked as though he'd walked into a duracrete wall. "Our time _together?_"

Klivian's eyes widened in almost comical horror. "Together?" he croaked.

Karoly frowned. "You're not…?"

"No!" Janson said loudly.

"No no no no no." Klivian shook his head so vigorously she thought he might fall over.

Karoly stared at them. "But you're vacationing together. I saw you. On the beach, in the club…"

"Not like _that!_" Klivian cried.

"We're standing in your hotel room!"

"_Wes's _hotel room!" Klivian sounded on the verge of panic, his face too red to be explained away as sunburn. "My _completely separate room _is next door! It's just…we don't…" He looked helplessly at Janson.

"We don't really have…anyone else to vacation with," the dark-haired pilot finished.

Karoly smirked. "That's a bit unbelievable coming from famous heroes."

Janson had rallied enough to look offended. "We're busy, you know. Saving the galaxy from…threats. Pirates."

"Warlords with domination fetishes," Klivian added. He flushed. "Uh, _world _domination fetishes."

Janson nodded. "Right. Those. It doesn't leave much time to meet attractive female vacationing partners. So we meet them _on_ vacation, instead."

Karoly raised her eyebrows.

"And we would have," he continued defensively, "if you weren't being sneaky and suspicious and luring us into conspiracies."

"Wait, now the fact that you don't have dates is _my _fault?"

Janson pointed at his friend. "He's been obsessed with you since you bumped into him this morning."

"I have not!" Klivian looked from Karoly to Janson and back. "I was—you were—you had a vibroblade!" He crossed his arms and looked at her accusingly.

"It was just a knife, actually," she said. Her headache had disappeared. "I never use vibroblades. The vibration throws off their accuracy."

Klivian didn't seem to have a response to that. Janson mimicked his friend's stance and said, "We're not gay."

Karoly rolled her eyes. "I don't care if you're gay or not. I just care that you keep out of my way."

She opened the door to the hotel room­—almost stopping to point out they'd taken adjoining suites but deciding she didn't have time for the sputtering protests that would follow—and stepped into the hall.

As the door shut behind her, she heard Janson yell, "Wait—what do you mean you don't care if we're _not_ gay?"


	3. 03

**03.**

Wes pouted. "Why doesn't she care that we aren't gay? We're desirable commodities, assets to the female gender. Right?"

"Sure," Hobbie answered, not really listening. He moved to the window and looked out at the brightly-lit resort grounds. Wes's reflection paced back and forth across the glass.

"I can't believe this."

"Worse things have happened to us." Hobbie watched the tourists coming and going, wondering if any of them were members of Remembrance. "Much worse."

"Worse?" Wes cried, stopping to stare at Hobbie. "What if everyone thinks this way?"

Hobbie turned. "What are you talking about?"

"She thinks we're gay!" Wes rocked back on his heels, and his voice dropped a handful of decibels. "Wait — what are _you _talking about?"

"How we've only been on vacation one day and already stumbled across non-imaginary bad guys."

"Oh."

They stood for a moment, staring at opposite walls.

"So what are we going to do about it?" Wes asked.

"About people thinking we're gay?"

"No. Well, yes, but not right now. I mean about these Remembrance people."

Hobbie looked at him, surprised.

"What?" Wes crossed his arms. "I do understand the importance of this."

Hobbie nodded and turned back to the window. "I know. Sorry. I suppose we should notify the local authorities."

"Karoly said they weren't worth much, and from what I've heard, she's right."

"Still, we should anyway."

"Agreed. The New Republic Embassy, too."

Hobbie looked over his shoulder at Wes. "And the Imperials. This involves them, as well."

Wes made a face. "It's still weird to think of them as friends. Or at least not as enemies."

"We'll get used to it eventually, I guess." He turned back to the window.

"Maybe. What are you looking at?"

Hobbie pulled the window shade, shutting out the night. "Nothing."

* * *

The New Republic Embassy looked like a museum. Wes stood on the wide, stone steps and gazed up at the building, its white, pillared face gleaming in the Soleran sunlight. It looked clean, regal, and, as far as he was concerned, a bit snobby.

"I'm not sure we're dressed for this," he said.

Next to him, Hobbie grunted. "And conveniently lacking dress uniforms."

"Shame." Wes turned and looked at the equally impressive Imperial Embassy on the opposite side of the huge plaza. Both buildings were new, having been constructed after the signing of the treaty, and he bet the architectural competition that took place had been quite the show.

He couldn't begin to guess how much money had been poured into the two buildings, but as he looked out over the plaza packed with tourists, souvenir stands, food carts, and decorative fountains, he had to admire the view.

"Well, I suppose we should go in," he said, facing the New Republic Embassy entrance. "It can't be worse than the Soleran police."

Hobbie looked at him.

"What?" Wes demanded. "_How_ could it be worse?"

"They could _actually _arrest us instead of just threatening to." Hobbie started climbing the remaining steps. "You should let me do the talking this time."

"How was I to know that announcing the existence of a terrorist plot could be considered disturbing the peace?" Wes asked. They reached the top of the stairs and crossed the portico to the doorway. "Anyone could have made that mistake."

"Not everyone would have stood on a chair and shouted it into a very crowded police station."

"We were number seventy-two in line. I was desperate."

Wes pushed the door open and stepped into a cool, dim foyer. Staircases on either side swept up to the next level, where he could see turbolift doors. The ceiling rose dozens of meters above their heads, drawing Wes's eye to a chandelier that seemed to cascade around itself in blue crystal waves, reminding him of the ocean. In the middle of the foyer sat a desk carved from the shell of a creature he never wanted to meet alive, and behind the desk sat a young woman he recognized.

He smiled at Hobbie. "See? This will go much better. I can tell already."

He led the way toward the desk, where Seline sat frowning at her computer terminal. She looked up as they approached, and her polite smile stretched into a one of delight. One hand touched her hair.

Wes leaned on her desk and smiled. "Hi."

"Hi," she said. Breathlessly, he thought. Then she seemed to collect herself and forced her face into a frown. "You ditched me last night." Her eyes flicked toward Hobbie. "Us. Ditched us."

Wes had grown very good at looking apologetic over the course of his life. "I'm so sorry. My friend here wasn't feeling well, and I practically had to carry him home. Something he ate, probably." He pretended not to notice Hobbie's glare.

Seline softened. "But he's better now?"

"Much. He begged me to leave him crumpled on the 'fresher floor last night and keep you company — he's such a gentleman about things like that — but I couldn't. You never abandon your wingman."

He waited for her to absorb his words and their meaning, and he wasn't disappointed. Her eyes widened and she leaned forward, the loose neckline of her top making for a nice view from his position.

"I knew it!" Her unrestrained smile made her look young — very young — and for a moment, he wondered if he should be doing this. He pushed the doubt aside as she continued, her words fast and girlish with excitement. "I _knew _I recognized you, but Racha didn't believe me. And then when you didn't show up, she just knew I'd been lying, and I started to wonder if I'd imagined it, because it's so dark in that club and the blue lights to do weird things to faces, but I was right! You _are _you!"

Wes laughed. "Yes, I'm me."

Seline blushed and looked down, twisting her fingers together.

Wes put both hands on the desk, leaned toward her, and cast his voice into a lower, intimate register. "I'm sorry I — we — ruined your night. Can I make it up to you?"

She lifted her head, a smile hiding in the corner of her mouth. "How?"

Somewhere behind him, Hobbie shifted his weight, but Wes ignored him. "Why don't we recreate last night and try again? My friend and I will meet you and your friend at that same club, weird blue lights and all. Say, 2200?"

Seline beamed at him and nodded. Wes straightened, slipped his hands into his pockets and smiled back. They smiled at each other until Hobbie cleared his throat and spoke.

"We did come here for a reason, you know."

Wes pulled his hands from his pockets, made a face at Seline, who giggled, and said, "My friend's right. We're here on business. We need to speak to whoever's in charge of your security."

A wrinkle appeared on Seline's forehead. "May I ask why?"

Wes looked at Hobbie and gestured toward Seline. If Hobbie wanted to do the talking this time around, now was the opportunity.

Hobbie stepped forward, and Seline — rather reluctantly, Wes thought — looked at him. When she saw the look on his face, she gasped.

"Did someone die?"

Hobbie looked confused, and Wes covered his laugh with a cough.

"No," Hobbie said. "At least, not yet."

Seline stopped playing with the rings on her fingers.

"We think a terrorist organization is going to carry out some sort of attack on Soler soon. They're not too happy about the Republic-Imperial peace treaty."

Seline's eyes widened. "Are you sure? Why here? Soler has nothing to do with galactic politics."

"That's why we want to talk to your security head," Hobbie said.

She twitched and dropped her eyes to her computer screen, squinting in concentration. "Captain Schol is unavailable today, but I'm sure Mr. Markin can help you. He's kind of the second-in-command, for lack of a better term, of our security division. Let me call him."

Wes nodded. "That'd be great."

Seline pushed a button on her comm. "Mr. Markin? I have a Major Janson and a…" She looked blankly at Hobbie for a second, then turned to Wes for help.

"Major Klivian," he whispered.

"A Major Klivian from Starfighter Command here to see you. They say it's urgent." She paused for a response Wes couldn't hear, and he assumed her comm tapped into the earpiece she wore. "Yes, sir. Something about a terrorist group here on Soler." Another pause, and then she said, "Thank you, sir. I'll send them right up."

She pushed a different button on the comm and looked up at Wes. "Mr. Markin can see you immediately. His office is on the eighth floor, the hallway to your left. Number 844."

Wes tapped her desk. "Thanks, Seline. See you in a bit." He winked and steered Hobbie toward the stairs that led to the turbolifts.

After half a dozen steps, Hobbie wrenched his arm free and gave him a dark look, twisting as he walked so that a portion of it fell on Seline, as well. "She's watching you," he grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets and stomping toward the turbolift.

"Of course, she is," Wes said. "What's got you in such a mood? I let you do the talking. The Remembrance bit, at least."

Hobbie stabbed the lift button. "Which I appreciate. It's all the talking you _did_ do that's got me in 'such a mood.' Like the part where you talked about me like I wasn't standing right there. And set up a date for both of us without my permission."

"And the part where she recognized me but not you?"

The turbolift doors opened, and Hobbie moved into the car instead of answering. Wes followed, pushing the button for the eighth floor as the doors whisked closed. He waited until the light for the fourth floor glowed before saying, "Well?"

Hobbie looked at him, then quickly faced the doors again, his arms crossed. "We have more important things to do right now than spend an evening in a club with some girls hanging all over us."

Wes raised his eyebrows. "Like what? Once we're done here, we're on vacation again."

Hobbie dropped his arms. "She's half your age!"

"Like that's ever stopped me," Wes said automatically, ignoring the twist in his stomach.

Hobbie made the strangled noise he only made when Wes had pushed him to his limit, and Wes wondered what was really bothering him. This day was nothing compared to what he'd endured in the past.

The turbolift doors opened, but neither of them moved.

"I hope it's stopped you before," Hobbie said in a mix of horror and viciousness. "When you were twenty, or thirty, or even thirty-five, I certainly hope it stopped you."

"Of course, it did," Wes shot back. He felt his hands clenching into fists. "I'm not a kriffing pervert. Why are you so worked up about this? She's an adult. _She _approached _me_. I see nothing wrong in having a few drinks and some fun if she's willing."

The doors slid closed, and Hobbie pounded the button that opened them again. "Sometimes I just wish you'd grow up. You can't play this game forever, you know. Eventually, it won't work anymore. And then what will you do?"

He stepped out of the turbolift and moved left, and Wes leapt after him, catching his arm and spinning him around. A woman carrying a stack of datacards gasped and hurried the other direction.

He and Hobbie stared at each other for a long second, and then Wes let go of his arm and took a step back.

"Talk to me, Hobbie. This isn't about Seline."

Hobbie ran a hand over his face and took a deep breath. "It's just…when I ran into Karoly, and then all this about Remembrance — I was _relieved_. I don't know how to not do this, how to not always be on some sort of mission." He dropped his hand and looked at Wes, the mournful look on his face legitimate for once.

Wes nodded. "Yeah."

"But you don't seem to worry about it at all. We're retiring in two weeks, giving up the only way we know how to live, and the thought of it doesn't even phase you. You just go about things the way you always have, like nothing's changed since we were twenty, like nothing ever _will _change."

Wes looked down the hall, saw the woman with the datacards peek out a doorway, and crossed his arms. Without looking at Hobbie, he said, "So you'd feel better if I would freak out with you?"

"Well…yes."

Wes turned to look at him, and Hobbie smiled sheepishly.

"Is that stupid?"

"Probably," Wes said. "But it makes sense."

They stood another moment, and then Hobbie started walking. Wes followed. They turned a corner and found office 844. Hobbie knocked and a voice called, "Come in!"

A tall man stood behind the desk, looking like he couldn't decide if he should smile or look concerned. His brown hair curled over his ears and the collar of his shirt, but even without that sign, Wes would have known he was a civilian. There was something lacking in his posture, in the way he moved around the desk and approached them with his hand outstretched.

"Majors Janson and Klivian, an honor to meet you. I'm Chard Markin, Executive Security Administrator."

"Nice to be here," Wes said, shaking his hand. "Beautiful planet."

Markin smiled. "Thank you. I hope you're enjoying your stay."

"Very much," Hobbie said, "except for the group of wannabe terrorists who tried to shoot us last night."

"Aww," Wes said. "I wanted to say that part."

Markin dropped his hand. "I suppose you'd better sit down."

They settled into the two plush chairs in front of Markin's desk as he returned to his chair. Hobbie related what they knew about Remembrance, and Wes carefully hid his surprise at the alterations to the story. In this new version, he and Hobbie followed Shin into the alley at the prodding of some sort of military instinct and, after hearing a very telling conversation — far more telling than the actual conversation had been — found themselves surrounded by six burly men with blasters.

Wes wondered how they'd managed to escape, but Hobbie skipped that part of the story, covering with some vague phrases that doubled as humility. Wes stared at him, impressed.

Markin looked impressed, too, though for a completely different reason. "This is — I hope you understand how huge this is, and how much we owe you. If you hadn't been here…well, let's just say the Soleran law enforcement wouldn't have found this if it'd been dropped in their laps." He started typing into his computer terminal, glancing up to address them as his fingers flew over the keyboard incorporated into the surface of his desk. "I'll put this in front of Captain Schol first thing tomorrow morning. We don't have a large force here on Soler, but it's a start, and we can put in a request for more. I'll also liaise with the Imperial security department, offer to combine efforts. This involves them more directly than us, after all."

"Oh, good," Hobbie said. "Invading the Imperial Embassy would have been weird for us."

Markin stopped typing and gave them an ironic smile. "I imagine. We actually have a protocol set up for this sort of thing now. It's been an interesting year."

Wes smiled. "You should see Coruscant."

Markin pulled a piece of flimsy from a drawer and scribbled something on it. He handed it across the desk, and Hobbie leaned forward to accept it.

"That's my direct line here in the office along with the frequency for my personal comlink. Let me know if you stumble across anything else." Markin smiled. "That said, please don't feel you need to do anything else. You came here on vacation, I assume?"

Wes nodded.

"Then you've done more than enough. We'll take care of it from here. You concentrate on enjoying our beaches." His gaze settled on Hobbie. "Though you might want to buy some sunblock."

Hobbie sighed.

Markin stood, and Wes and Hobbie followed suit.

"Thanks for your help," Hobbie said. "We appreciate you being willing to see us."

Markin shook his head. "No, thank _you_. Without you, we probably wouldn't have known about this until it was too late." He smiled. "Besides, you don't turn away two of Rogue Squadron's most famous heroes."

"Don't make us blush," Wes said.

Hobbie backed toward the door. "Thanks again."

"You've got my comm frequency," Markin said. "Thanks for everything."

Wes and Hobbie nodded and managed to get out the door.

"I feel good about that," Hobbie said as they made their way back to the turbolift. "He seemed competent."

"So we're done now, right?" Wes asked. "We can go back to being lazy?"

"Did we ever manage to be lazy in the first place?"

"There were those few hours on the beach yesterday. And, you know, sleeping last night."

"I didn't sleep last night."

"No wonder you look so terrible today."

"Thanks."

The short turbolift ride down to the lobby was much less tense than the ride up.

* * *

Wedge answered his comm with sleep-bleary eyes and without a shirt. "Antill — Janson?"

"Hi, Wedge!" Wes gave a jaunty wave.

Wedge swayed a bit and glared. "It's the middle of the night. Hobbie better be dead or the fate of the galaxy better be at risk. Otherwise I'm going back to bed."

Hobbie pushed his way into the small holofield. "Not dead. Sorry. But that other one is up for debate."

Wedge looked more alert. "What happened?"

"We found crime," Wes announced.

Hobbie nodded. "And since we're on vacation, we need you to come kill it."

"Me," Wedge said flatly.

"Well, not you specifically," Wes said. "Unless you want to. But someone. There's not a whole lot of people here up for the job."

"An intelligence team would be best," Hobbie said.

"Like the Wraiths." Wes smiled. "I miss them."

"A couple X-wing or A-wing squadrons," Hobbie continued.

"Some of Page's commandos."

"Or a Super Star Destroyer. We're not picky."

Wedge rubbed his temples. "Next time I see you, I'm throttling you both. Tell me about your 'crime.'"

"It's not _our _crime," Wes said. "We just found it."

Wedge glared.

Hobbie explained what they'd learned about Remembrance in as few words as possible. Wedge had that look. Wes's sound effects and hand gestures when Hobbie got to the part about the suspected bombing didn't help. "We told the Soleran authorities, nearly getting arrested in the process—"

"Why am I not surprised?" Wedge asked.

"Then talked to someone named Markin in Security at the New Republic Embassy. He said he'd notify the Imperials."

"In conclusion," Wes said, "we've done all we can here, so now it's your turn. I didn't see the beach at all today. It was terrible."

Wedge had put his general face on. "I'll talk to some people, see what we can do. In the meantime, you two keep your ears to the ground. And keep an eye on this other player, the woman."

"Karoly," Hobbie said. Wes elbowed him. "And that might be hard. I don't think we'll see her again unless she wants us to."

"You might get lucky. Stranger things have happened."

"I resent that," Wes said. "I get lucky all the time."

Wedge ignored him. "Call me with an update tomorrow." His gaze moved from Wes to Hobbie and back, trying to look stern but coming off hopeless. "Don't do anything stupid."

Wes looked shocked. "Who, us?"

Wedge sighed. "Everyone always tells you how tiring and difficult it is being a parent. I say, try having pilots. Kids are a snap compared to you two."

"That's a little hypocritical, coming from the legendary Wedge Antilles," Hobbie said. "Have you considered that we are the way we are because of your influence?"

Wedge looked horrified. "Sithspawn. I hope not."

Wes nodded. "Your children are doomed."

"Right. I'm going back to bed." Wedge reached for the switch to his comm, then paused. "Behave yourselves."

Hobbie and Wes nodded solemnly.

Wedge closed his eyes. "I have a bad feeling about this. Antilles out." His image disappeared.

Wes flicked off the comm, then stretched. "Wedge was a lot less cranky before he had kids."

Hobbie tilted his head until his neck cracked. "It's the sleep deprivation."

Wes snorted. "Rogue Squadron's mottowas _based_ on sleep deprivation. And Myri's two now. Surely that means she sleeps through the night."

Hobbie shrugged. He didn't know anything about child sleep patterns. He was more worried about the way Wes was eyeing him.

"So," Wes said. "I couldn't help noticing that the story you told Markin bore little resemblance to reality. Why'd you leave Karoly out of it?"

Hobbie rubbed the back of his neck and then wished he hadn't when his sunburn protested. "I didn't want to — I don't know — blow her cover. I don't think she'd have wanted them to know she was here."

Wes leaned back in his chair, tipping it until the front legs left the floor. He looked amused. "Neither would Remembrance."

"That's different. They're the bad guys. Or are planning to be."

"How do we know she's not?"

Hobbie shrugged. "She saved our lives. I felt like we owed her something. That's all I could do."

Wes set his chair down. "Okay. Why didn't you sleep last night?"

"Sunburn."

"Uh huh."

Hobbie hated it when Wes got insightful. Fortunately, it didn't happen very often. He expected a triumphant smile to appear on Wes's face, but instead, he leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees.

"I've been thinking about what you said earlier, about how I should be freaking out with you about the retirement thing."

"I didn't say you _should_," Hobbie protested. "It'd just be nice."

Wes looked at him. "I've spent most of the past two months doing everything I could _not_ to think about it. Every time I do, all I can see is a blank. A hole, a void."

Hobbie nodded.

Wes's eyes dropped to his hands. "So I've just…kept going. Planted myself firmly in denial and pretended it didn't exist." He tried to smile, but it came out twisted. "Worked pretty well until today."

Hobbie gave him half a smile. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wreck it."

Wes stood. "It's all right. Probably needed to be wrecked." He looked at his wrist chrono. "I'm starving. Dinner?"

"Sure." Hobbie followed him toward the door.

"And then we need to get you properly dressed for tonight. I can't have you embarrassing me in front of Seline and her friend. Is there a color that makes your skin look less red?"

For the first time that day, Hobbie thought he might enjoy this vacation after all.


	4. 04

**04.**

Karoly swore as the pilots entered the same club they'd followed her from the night before.

She'd been following them all day, at first because she didn't have any better ideas and wanted to make sure they behaved themselves. The Soleran authorities didn't matter, but bringing the New Republic down on her head did not, in her opinion, count as staying out of her way. Her annoyance at their activities disappeared, though, when they picked up another tail upon leaving the embassy. Certain her luck was about to take a turn for the much, much worse, she followed. Her suspicions were confirmed when another man arrived to take over for the first — a man she'd seen before in connection to Remembrance.

Somehow, the pilots had tipped their hands.

Resigning herself to babysitting the unobservant pilots — who argued more than any non-married couple she'd ever encountered — she watched them eat dinner and then change and head to Soler's main strip. Janson's bright blue shirt made them easy to follow, but she kept her eyes on the Remembrance man who stayed a handful of meters behind them.

She expected him to follow the pilots into the club, but instead he stopped outside the entrance and pulled his comlink from his pocket. He spoke into it for a few moments, returned it to his pocket, and walked away.

Karoly swore again, the bad feeling she'd been nursing all day suddenly swelling into certainty and dread. For half a second, she considered leaving the pilots to their own devices and following the man from Remembrance, but the decision wasn't worth the effort. She walked past the club until she reached the entrance to the alley where everything had happened last night. She ducked inside and dropped her beach bag behind an empty crate, then pulled a blaster from its contents and stuck it into the back of her waistband. Unbuttoning her jacket, she doubled back and entered the club.

She pushed her way through the mass of people inside, looking for the pilots. The club's dark interior, coupled with the pulsing blue lights running through the ceiling in complicated whorls, made Janson's blue shirt useless, so she focused on faces. She swiped an unwatched drink from a table as she circled the club. On her second time past a grouping of sofas in one corner, she saw them.

Janson leaned back into the corner of the sofa, his arm around a young blonde woman whose revealing dress seemed made of fire gems. Klivian sat on the other end of the couch. He faced an equally young, dark-skinned woman in an equally revealing dress, but he seemed to be using his knees and drink as some sort of barrier. The woman put her hand on Klivian's leg and leaned forward to say something. Klivian shrank back against the sofa's arm and took a long pull of his drink.

Karoly smiled and turned, forcing her amusement down in order to survey the rest of the club. Hopefully she'd recognize the Remembrance agent or agents before they made whatever move they had planned.

"Someone as pretty as you shouldn't be all by themselves," a voice to her left said.

Karoly turned and looked at the Devaronian who'd spoken. He smiled, teeth sharp, and Karoly smiled pleasantly back.

"I'm not alone," she said. "My husband's at the bar getting us another round of drinks." She lifted the half-empty glass she'd stolen.

The Devaronian bowed his head and took a step back. "My apologies. Please, enjoy your evening."

"Thank you."

Karoly turned back to the pilots. The blonde whispered something in Janson's ear, and he smiled and stood, pulling her to her feet. He shouted something at Klivian, who shook his head in three frantic jerks, then slumped back into the couch. The brunette — practically in Klivian's lap by this point — looked delighted.

Janson and the blonde moved into the crowd, heading for the door that led upstairs to the dance floor. Karoly wondered if she should follow them, but there was no exit from the dance floor. Janson would have to come back down eventually. She leaned against the wall and pretended to take a sip from the glass she held, content to stay put for now.

And then things got interesting.

Klivian gulped down the rest of his drink, and while his head was tilted back, the brunette lifted her hand and curled her fingers in a harsh summoning gesture. Karoly straightened and took a step away from the wall. As soon as Klivian's glass left his mouth, the brunette threw herself at him, catching his face in her hands and kissing him with enough force to nearly send them both to floor.

Karoly's eyes flicked around the room, looking for the brunette's backup. Two men about ten meters to her right were moving toward the sofa arrangement with more determination than the average club patron. Karoly angled to intercept, slipping through the crowd and shifting her grip on her glass.

When the men were three meters from Klivian, Karoly stumbled into one of them and grabbed a fistful of his shirt to keep herself from falling. She giggled. "Oops! Sorry!"

He gave her a disgusted look and grabbed her wrist, trying to pry her fingers from his clothing. "Move it, lady."

She giggled again, swayed backward, and tossed the contents of her glass into the second man's eyes. By the time he yelled, she'd let go of the first man's shirt and snapped her foot into his groin. When he bent in pain, she gripped his head in her free hand and slammed his nose against her knee. He went down.

The second man, alcohol soaking his hair and collar, reached for her with one hand as the other slipped inside his jacket for a weapon. She blocked his arm and struck out with the side of her hand, catching him in the throat. He choked, dropped to one knee, and she punched him twice in the temple. He collapsed on his face.

Karoly dropped her glass on his back, ignoring the startled cries of the crowd, and strode toward the couch where Klivian half-lay, the brunette sprawled across his chest. Judging by the placement of his hands, he'd given in to her advances.

She hauled the other woman to her feet by the hair. The brunette's scream cut short as Karoly punched her and then casually tossed her unconscious form onto another sofa.

Klivian gaped up at her. "Karoly?"

"Let's go," she said. "We need to find your friend." She waited until the pilot scrambled to his feet, then turned and moved toward the dance floor. She could feel Klivian behind her, nearly stepping on her heels.

"What the kriffing hell is going on?" he yelled in her ear.

"I just saved your ass," she yelled back. "Again. Your date called in some mean-looking back-up, and I don't think their intentions were honorable."

Klivian was silent for a few steps and then asked, "Where are they now?"

"Out of the game."

They reached the stairs that led up to the dance floor, and the music made further conversation impossible. Karoly took them two at a time, Klivian right behind her.

* * *

Seline moved to the music, her body brushing his every few beats. Wes slid one hand behind her back and pulled her closer, and she came eagerly. She turned in his arms and pressed her body to his in a languid rolling movement, from shoulders to hips, which he liked very much. So much that, when she faced him again, he kissed her to show his appreciation.

She kissed eagerly, too.

Very eagerly. By the time that song had merged into another one with the same beat but a different melody, Seline had worked them toward the edge of the room and Wes had her pressed against the wall.

"We should — mmm — get of here," she said.

Wes paused, his mouth on her neck. "Really?"

Her hands drifted down his sides, and she hooked one finger into each side of his waistband, pulling him even closer. "Yes."

He lifted his head and looked at her. "All right. Let me tell Hobbie we're leaving, and we can go back to my room."

She shook her head and kissed him. "That'd take too long. I have a better idea."

She pulled him toward the back of the dance floor, toward a door behind the sound booth. A bouncer blocked the door, but his stern look softened into a smile when he saw Seline. She stood on her toes and yelled something in his ear. The bouncer looked Wes up and down, then shrugged and nodded. Seline kissed his cheek.

While the bouncer unlocked the door, Seline pressed herself into Wes's side and placed her mouth next to his ear. "My cousin, Jak," she said, following her words with a nip to his earlobe. "He's going to let us up on the roof to stargaze." She pulled away and gave him a mischievous look, and Wes couldn't help laughing.

Jak the bouncer gave him a warning look as they passed through the door, but Wes couldn't be bothered with large, protective cousins when Seline insisted on climbing the stairs while wrapped around him.

After much giggling, stumbling, and kissing, they reached the top of the short flight of stairs, and Seline fumbled with the handle to the door. It opened suddenly, and they tumbled out onto the roof, nearly falling as their legs tangled together.

Seline buried her face in his shoulder and laughed, and Wes joined her, his arms loosely around her waist. He kicked the door shut and guided her toward the center of the roof.

"So these stars, then," he started, but Seline pulled away from him and took three long steps back. "Seline?"

Her eyes drifted over his shoulder. He heard footsteps and turned. Four men moved out from behind the small shed that housed the rooftop door. Each held a blaster in his hand.

Several things clicked into place at once in his mind, but none of it did him any good at this point.

"So, what," he said to Seline, "you're kriffing for Remembrance?"

She didn't seem fazed by his fury, just moved around him and toward the group of thugs. "I _am_ sorry about this, Wes" she said. "You're a good time."

Wes slowly raised his hands above his head. His eyes left the blasters trained on him long enough to give Seline a look filled with as much contempt as he could muster. "Thanks. That makes me feel a lot better."

The thug in the lead, his head shaved in what Wes assumed was an attempt to look more intimidating, gestured to the right with his blaster. "Move. Our ride's waiting at the bottom of the fire escape."

Wes turned his head. Several meters away, a black, metal ladder arced from its anchor-point on the short ledge that ran around the roof and disappeared toward the ground. From its position, he guessed it led to the alley he and Hobbie had skulked down the night before. In the center of the roof, gleaming in the corner of his eye, he could make out the heating and cooling units for the club, domelike structures in a shiny silver metal that reflected the city lights.

"Our ride, huh?" He faced his captors. "I don't suppose I get to know where we're going."

Shaved Head scoffed. "Sorry. No."

Wes shrugged. "Well, I hope the seats are comfortable. I have a bad back." He calculated his chances of acquiring a blaster and making it to cover. Not good.

The thugs moved closer — but not close enough for him to try for one of their weapons — and herded him toward the fire escape. He went, seeing little other choice. They didn't want him dead — at least not right away — or they'd have shot him already. If he behaved for now, an opportunity might present itself between the fire escape and when they finally got around to killing him.

"I'm going back down," Seline called. "Racha's guys should have Klivian by now."

Wes almost tripped on the sudden rush of guilt, but managed to keep his pace steady. He'd insisted Hobbie come out tonight, and now they were being abducted at blaster-point by amateur terrorists.

As vacations went, it was one of the most spectacular failures Wes had ever experienced.

He heard the rooftop door open and close, and then a muffled shriek. His new friends heard it, too. Shaved Head motioned for two of them to take cover behind the heating and cooling units, where they'd have a nearly straight shot into the stairwell, and they jogged off.

Shaved Head gave Wes a shove. "Keep moving."

Wes took a step toward the ladder. Ten meters between him and the edge of the roof, two blasters at his back, and an unknown quantity behind door number one. He hoped it was who thought it was, and Racha's guys had fumbled their job.

"Rayson," the shorter man behind Wes said. Wes and Shaved Head — Rayson — both turned, and at the other man's gesture, looked at the door.

The door to the roof eased open a few centimeters, and then a few more. From where Wes stood, he could only see the hinge, but remembering the dark of the stairwell, knew he wouldn't be able to see anything even if the door's opening faced him.

The door moved again, another centimeter at most, and a laser bolt shot through the tiny gap of the hinge and hit the shorter man standing to Wes's left square in the chest.

The men in the center of the roof opened fire, pummeling the door with blaster fire. Rayson swore and dodged sideways, another shot from the hinge just missing his shoulder. He yanked Wes in front of him as cover and backed quickly toward the fire escape. Wes struggled to keep his feet. The barrel of Rayson's blaster dug into the side of his neck.

The door opened further and whoever was inside started returning fire toward the men hidden in the center of the roof. Wes saw one go down. Another shot from the door hinge sizzled past Rayson's ear, and he ducked behind Wes, his grip on Wes's shirt collar tightening until a button popped loose.

_Two people_, Wes thought.

"Back-up!" Rayson shouted over his shoulder — toward the ground, toward other Remembrance agents capable of reversing this sudden swing in the odds. Rayson pulled his blaster away from Wes's neck and fired three quick shots toward the door.

It was all the opening Wes needed. He lunged for Rayson's gun arm, locking one hand around his wrist and pushing the blaster up and aside. He brought his other arm up, hand in a fist, but Rayson was already there, blocking his punch and capturing his arm in a mirroring grip.

They struggled for a second, glaring at each other, and Wes felt himself bent backward. He heard shouts from the ground, back-up being mustered. A howl sounded behind him, cut off by a final spit of a blaster. A door kicked open. A voice — Hobbie's voice — shouted his name. Running feet.

Rayson twisted his wrist, aimed with the blaster, and in the half second his attention moved over Wes's shoulder, Wes shoved forward as hard as he could. He hooked one foot behind Rayson's leg, and the bigger man stumbled backward. The blaster shot dispensed harmlessly in the air.

Wes felt a brief surge of satisfaction, but it disappeared when the raised lip of the roof's edge caught the back of Rayson's calves. His eyes widened, and then he fell over the side, pulling Wes with him.

Air rushed past Wes's ears. Brief glimpses of the wall, men scrambling toward a freight speeder, the sky. Rayson's face.

And then the impact. An explosion behind his eyes.

Then nothing.


	5. 05

**05.**

"_Wes!_" Klivian screamed, lunging for the edge of the roof. Karoly dropped her blaster, caught his arm in both hands, and threw her weight against his momentum. A burst of laser bolts flashed up from the ground, just missing Klivian's head as Karoly pulled him back and down.

They fell, tangled together, and Klivian lashed out at her, blindly struggling, trying to reach his friend. Karoly flipped him beneath her, pinned his arms and legs to the rough surface of the rooftop, and shouted at him through gritted teeth.

"Major! _Major Klivian! _Look at me!"

He bucked one last time, and she used every ounce of strength and adrenaline she possessed to slam him back into the ground.

He looked at her, and the fear and anger in his eyes almost made her flinch. "Get off," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"How many were there?" she asked. "You caught a glimpse. How many?"

Klivian glared at her and his muscles tensed, preparing to fight. She leaned down, made sure he could see nothing but her.

"Getting ourselves shot won't help him. Now _think _— how many?"

He closed his eyes, took a breath, then another, and said, "Six."

Karoly nodded and rolled off him, careful to stay low. She retrieved her blaster and crept toward the edge of the roof. Klivian followed, but though she could feel the tension roiling off him, he stayed low, waited for her instructions.

She heard voices, shouts. The back of a freight speeder opening, a metallic rattle, and the rising hum of repulsorlifts warming up.

"Careful!" one voice said. "He dies, the boss'll have our heads."

Karoly caught Klivian's eye, saw by his expression he'd heard. She eased her eye over the top of the roof's lip and peered toward the ground. She ducked back down almost immediately, as two men with blaster rifles lit up the space where her head had been, but she'd seen two other men bundling an unconscious Janson into the speeder.

"Let's go, let's go!" the voice shouted again. Doors slammed.

"Cover me," Karoly whispered. Klivian nodded.

She tucked her blaster into her jacket pocket, grabbed the black ladder, and swung herself over the side of the building. Pressing the inside of her boots and knees against outer frame of the ladder, she slid down the metal bars and onto the landing halfway to the ground. Above her, Klivian showered the speeder – now on the move – with blaster fire, scorching the area surrounding the driver's window. The speeder jerked, almost hitting the building to its right, then straightened out and shot toward the alley junction.

Karoly grabbed the small platform's railing and flipped herself over it, shifting her grip so that she hung from the base of the landing, and then fell the final three meters to the ground. She rolled to ease the impact, came to rest on her stomach in the center of the alley, her blaster in her hand, and aimed for the speeder's repulsorlifts.

One of the men with rifles leaned out the side of the speeder, but a shot from Klivian hit his shoulder. The man jerked, dropped his rifle, and slumped back inside.

The speeder turned the corner and disappeared. Karoly stood. A metallic clang sounded above her as Klivian's feet hit the landing. She turned to see him mimicking her ladder-sliding trick, which surprised her until she remembered he was a pilot and had long ago learned the fastest way up or down a ladder.

As soon as his feet touched the ground, he was running, and Karoly followed. They turned left at the corner and raced toward the street, where they paused while Karoly looked left, Klivian right. He tugged her arm and sprinted off, and Karoly kept as close to him as she could without tripping them both. Ahead of them, already several blocks away, the freight speeder turned again. Klivian pushed harder, bellowing at tourists to get out of the way, but he still caught his shoulder on a man, sending him sprawling. Klivian spun, staggered, put one hand on the ground, trying to stay on his feet. Karoly had to jump over his legs to keep from slamming them both into the pavement. She slipped an arm through his, tugged him up by joint of his shoulder, and in three strides they'd regained whatever speed they'd lost.

But still, as they ran, the words _too long, too long _pounded in Karoly's head in rhythm with her feet hitting the sidewalk. The intersection where the speeder had turned was one of the largest in the city, and once on the main highway in Soler City, the speeder could go anywhere.

They turned the corner, but after half a block, Karoly slowed, a hand on his arm gently bringing Klivian's speed down with hers. Speeders of all sizes and shapes whipped past, making the fabric of Karoly's jacket flutter. Klivian stared into the distance, his fists clenched. Pedestrians gave them frightened looks, and Karoly remembered the blasters they both held. She put hers — the small hold-out she'd had in her boot — into a pocket. She took a step toward Klivian, her hand still on his arm — half restraint, half reassurance — and pried the blaster she'd given him from his hand, slipping it into the back of her waistband.

"He's alive," she said. "That's how they want him. They wouldn't have taken him if he wasn't."

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice still in that low, even tone. "Because the glimpse I caught, it—"

"Yes." She waited until he looked at her. The helplessness in his face matched the tightness in her chest. "They were being careful — too careful. He's alive. Which means we can find out where they took him, and we can get him back."

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, and some of the tension seemed to ease out of him. Karoly took a deep breath and shifted her focus from keeping Klivian together to planning their next step. They couldn't do any more here.

She gave his arm a small squeeze, then let her hand drop to her side. "Come on. Let's get inside."

* * *

Hobbie paced the small living room of Karoly's apartment, barely noticing the dingy furniture, dim lights, and covered windows. The fear and helplessness of watching Wes fall off the roof had been replaced sometime in the long, silent walk to the apartment with a rage that made his hands shake.

Karoly leaned up against the far wall, watching him with guarded eyes, but he couldn't stop pacing in front of the tattered sofa. She moved into the small kitchen, and he heard the soft clink of dishes, the rush of water, but his gaze stayed locked on his shoes as they rose and fell, back and forth.

Then another pair of shoes appeared, facing his. He stopped moving so he wouldn't run into her and lifted his head to see what she wanted. She pressed a cup of water into his hand, closing his fingers around the glass, and gave him an apologetic smile.

"I don't have anything stronger." She backed away, returned to her position against the wall, and Hobbie stared at the cup in his hand.

Turning on his heel, he lifted the glass and threw it against the wall. It exploded into shards, and water ran down the paneling in dark rivulets. Hobbie stared at the mess for a long moment, holding his breath, and then every bone in his body seemed to sag.

"Sorry," he muttered. He heard Karoly move toward him. "I don't know why I did that."

"It's all right."

He felt her hands on his shoulders, guiding him one step, two, until the sofa bumped against the backs of his knees and she eased him down onto it. He sank into the cushions farther than he expected, but otherwise found the sofa surprisingly comfortable. No lumps, no springs. He laid his head back and looked at the water-stained ceiling. Karoly sat beside him.

"I was wondering what to do with that wall," she said. "I like your avant-garde approach."

Hobbie closed his eyes. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm not to the point yet where it's going to help."

"Sorry."

Hobbie was getting tired of that word. It seemed to be the only one in his head, echoing again and again: _sorry sorry sorry_.

"Jokes were never one of my talents," Karoly continued, "so how about this—we figure out how to take the kriffing bastards out."

Hobbie lifted his head and looked at her. Her eyes were hard. Something flared inside him, banishing the last of the evening's helpless anger and replacing it with a cold determination. "Yes. Let's do that."

"Good." Something flickered across her face—uncertainty, maybe, or guilt. Hobbie debated whether he had any right to ask her about it, but before he made up his mind, she stood and took up the pacing he'd recently abandoned. He tucked his feet closer to the base of the sofa and watched her.

He noticed again the grace with which she moved, and with wisps of hair escaping from her braid and dirt from the alley still clinging to her clothes, she seemed more like a predator than she had on the beach a day ago. He remembered the ease and speed with which she'd leveled the bouncer guarding the door to the roof and silenced Seline in the stairwell. He remembered the accuracy of her shots through the door hinge before his attention had been consumed by the two men shooting at them. He remembered the six dead men in the alley the night before.

A spark of hope joined his newfound determination, and he sat up and pushed himself to the edge of the couch. They might be able to pull this off after all.

"Okay," Karoly said. "Who'd you talk to yesterday? Who saw you? Your tail didn't pick you up until the embassy, but we should consider everyone."

Hobbie frowned. "Our tail? How do you know we went to the — oh."

Karoly shrugged apologetically. "All my other leads were dead, and I wanted to make sure you two behaved yourselves."

He gave her a mournful look. "That's not something we've ever been good at."

"Don't—" That strange unidentified flicker touched her face again, and she resumed pacing. "So who'd you talk to?"

Hobbie stood and crossed to the other side of the room so he'd have space to move while he thought. "An inspector with the Soleran law enforcement. Vashner. A couple other people at the station. I don't remember their names."

"Can you describe them?"

He nodded.

"Good. I can go in tomorrow and get names. Who else?"

"At the embassy, just Seline and Chard Markin. His title was something like Executive Administrator of Security."

Karoly stopped and stared at him. "The blonde works at the embassy?"

"It's a bit obvious, I know."

"Nothing wrong with obvious. It gives us a place to start." She continued prowling across the room. "And from what I've seen of Remembrance so far, they don't lean toward subtlety. They tried to kidnap you in the middle of the club."

Hobbie crossed his arms. "And it would have worked, if you hadn't showed up. They still got Wes."

The corner of Karoly's lip twitched as she sat on the sofa and looked up at him. "Well, he did fall into their hands."

Hobbie blinked at her, then felt his mouth curve into a small smile. "I'm keeping that one until we get him back. He'll love it."

She smiled, the first real smile he'd seen from her. By the time it was full-grown, though, it had taken a wicked turn, and Hobbie swallowed.

"We're missing someone," she said. "In our suspects list."

Hobbie eyed her. "Who?"

"The one in your lap."

"Oh." He felt his face warm and hoped his sunburn covered the blush. "Her. Um, her name was Racha. She's a friend of Seline's. That's…really all I know about her."

Karoly's eyebrows rose. "You seemed to know her a little better than that when I pulled her off you."

"She was…very insistent."

Her smile widened but didn't lose any of its wickedness. "I'll keep in mind how easy you are and adjust my behavior accordingly."

"I'm not—" Hobbie started to protest, but he stopped when Karoly stood and moved into the small bedroom just off the living room. He didn't know what she meant, and he wasn't sure he wanted to ask.

She returned a few minutes later with a stack of blankets and a pillow. She dropped them onto the sofa and gave him an amused look. "You can sleep on the couch."

He let out a breath, almost a laugh, and relaxed, slipping his hands into his pockets as he watched her turn the sofa into a bed.

"'Fresher's through the bedroom," she said, jerking her head that direction. "You're welcome to what you can find. We'll buy you some basic necessities tomorrow. We can't risk going back to your room, so you'll just have to pick up your belongings once this is over."

Hobbie nodded, but she wasn't looking at him. He moved into the bedroom and toward the refresher, taking in the room as he walked. It was bare and generic, like the rest of the apartment, but here and there he spotted personal items — a shirt discarded on the floor, a pair of soft-soled shoes kicked into a corner. In the refresher, her presence was the most apparent. Toiletries littered the small countertop, seeming to spill from a cosmetics bag propped in the corner. Disconcertingly, a small mound of blonde hair lay behind the faucet.

He looked at his reflection and grimaced. His hair stood up in sweat-matted licks, and beneath the flush of sunburn, he looked more drawn than anyone on vacation should ever look. He washed his face, stuck his head under the faucet to rinse out his hair, and swished some toothpaste around his mouth. He considered a shower, but as he had no clean clothes to change into yet, he decided to wait.

When he returned to the small living room, Karoly sat on the made-up sofa, her elbows on her knees. All traces of amusement had left her face, replaced by that unidentifiable flicker again, only this time it wasn't flickering.

"Um, you're hogging my bed," he said.

She looked up at him. "I'm sorry, Klivian."

He shifted his weight. "You're not talking about monopolizing sleeping surfaces, are you?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry I got you into this. If I hadn't been curious on that beach, if I hadn't wanted to double check to see if you were who I thought you were, you never would have followed me into that alley, you wouldn't have learned about Remembrance, and your friend wouldn't have fallen off a building and been carted away by people who, even if they want him alive now, won't want him alive for long."

Hobbie could feel the tension returning to his muscles. "You couldn't have stopped this. Last night, before we climbed out the window of a storage closet, Wes met Seline at the bar. She knew we were here before we ever walked in that embassy. If you hadn't bumped into me on the beach, Wes and I probably would have disappeared last night, and no one would even know we were missing. This vacation was doomed from the start."

Karoly looked down at her feet and ran her hands through her hair, loose now and wavy from its braid, starting at her hairline and dragging her fingers all the way down the back of her neck. Her forehead nearly touched her knees.

"Also," he continued, "if we're planning to get ourselves killed together in the near future, you should start calling me Hobbie."

She looked up and almost smiled. "You're not an optimist, are you?"

"Are you?"

"Not really, no."

"Then we'll always be prepared for the worst."

She laughed softly and pushed herself to her feet. "Good night, Hobbie." She moved into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

Hobbie stared at his makeshift bed for a moment, then pried off his shoes and socks. He took off his dress shirt, turned off the few light panels, and put the extra blankets on the floor. The Soleran nights were almost as hot as the days, and Karoly's apartment didn't seem to have much in the way of climate control.

He stretched out on the sofa, let himself sink into it, and stared up at the ceiling. Despite the image of Wes's fall playing over and over again in his mind, sleep came more quickly than he expected.

* * *

Karoly stood in her bedroom doorway and watched Klivian sleep. One bare foot had fallen off the sofa and lay flat on the carpet, propping his knee up in a casual position. He'd flung an arm above his head, as though letting it lay near his body created too much heat in the already warm room. His breath came quietly but steadily.

She watched him for several minutes, until she was satisfied he was truly asleep, then eased the door shut. She crossed the room, knelt by the bed, and pulled her comm equipment from underneath it.

It took several minutes for the unit to connect, bypassing half a dozen networks and cycling through encryptions, but once it did, she only had to wait a few seconds for her call to be answered.

The admiral's image appeared, crisp and neat as always. It was the middle of the night for him, as well, and Karoly wondered if he ever slept.

"Karoly," he said, and waited.

"Things have gotten complicated." She outlined the situation in as few words as possible, not bothering to cover her mistakes. He'd see them anyway, but he wouldn't comment. He never did.

Only when she was finished did his eyes leave hers, drifting to the side while he thought. "Your theory?"

"I think Janson will make a handy scapegoat for their debut."

"I agree." His gaze returned to hers. "Do you want me to send you some back-up?"

She shook her head. "There is no back-up, remember? That's why you hired me."

He smiled, a slow, rueful curving of the mouth. "It is indeed."

"Klivian and I can take care of it."

"Very well. But Karoly—" He looked at her, searching her face for some unknown sign. "They know you're in the game now. Play your hand well."

She nodded.

"And be careful." Another small smile, a nod, and Admiral Pellaeon cut the connection.

Karoly powered down the comm and shoved it back under the bed. She moved into the refresher, and the brightness of the light panels made her blink. She dug through her cosmetic bag until she found a pair of trimmers, then looked at herself in the mirror.

They knew she was in the game now, so she'd just have to change who she was.

She separated a section of her hair from the rest and raised the trimmers.


	6. Interlude

**Interlude**

_Fourteen standard months earlier_

Karoly stood in front of the transparisteel window that looked into the bacta room, watching Paloma D'asima float in the cylindrical tank, when he approached. It was the middle of the night, and most of the ship was asleep. Expecting a medic, she couldn't hide her surprise when his reflection appeared next to hers.

"My crew tells me she'll make a full recovery," Admiral Pellaeon said.

She examined his face in the window. It gave away little, but instead of setting her on edge, she felt secure in his presence. A neat trick. "Yes. It was very kind of you to let us use your medical facilities."

"You came here in good faith. The least I could do was honor that."

She returned her gaze to the bacta tank that housed one of the Eleven. "We'll stop imposing on your hospitality soon. Sha D'asima will be ready to travel by tomorrow afternoon."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Pellaeon nod. "I don't know as much about the Mistryl as I would like," he said, his voice quiet, "but I understand you work for hire."

His reflection turned its head to examine her, but she kept her eyes forward, resisting the urge to face him. "The Mistryl don't work with the Empire," she said automatically.

"And yet you're here."

Karoly's lips curled, but the smile held no mirth. "True."

They stood a moment, letting the ship's hum fill the silence. Karoly forced herself not to fidget.

"I'm heading to my quarters for a late dinner," Pellaeon said. "I have an offer I would like to discuss with you. Would you join me?"

* * *

The dinner was light — a salad and some cold meat. Karoly hadn't eaten in almost fourteen hours, and she accepted a plate gratefully. They ate quietly, seated at a small table beneath a panel screen that showed the view from the bridge. Karoly finished before the admiral, and she took the chance to observe him. She noted the creases in the elbows of his uniform, the exhaustion hidden just beneath the posture and poise. And something else – a sorrow or a satisfaction. She couldn't tell which.

Pellaeon set his fork aside, a third of his food still untouched, and raised his head to meet her eyes. He didn't seem surprised or discomfited that she'd been watching him, and she wondered if he purposefully gave her the opportunity.

"I spent the evening with General Bel Iblis of the New Republic," Pellaeon said. "Negotiating terms for the Empire's surrender."

Karoly blinked in surprise, both at the information and at the fact he would tell her.

"To this end, I'd like you to work for me," he continued.

The Mistryl resentment toward the Empire flared in her chest, too ingrained to be set aside despite everything that had happened that day. Despite the almost-treaty with the fake Thrawn, the shame of their gullibility; despite Shada's rushed and whispered story, which, if true, threatened to pull the ground from beneath Karoly's feet; despite the kindness and professionalism of this man and his crew. Her hands tightened into fists and pressed against her thighs.

Remembering Karrde's words, she asked, "As your personal death commando?"

Pellaeon's gaze remained steady. "You are not a member of the Imperial navy. You have no obligation to follow my orders."

"Even if you're paying me?"

"If I asked you to do something you ethically opposed, you could refuse at any time, and I would respect your decision."

She didn't miss his use of the word _asked_. "And if I'm ethically opposed to the Empire?"

He smiled sadly. "Then I will admit there are times I do not blame you. It seems that what the Empire could have been — should have been — was always just within reach, and yet never grasped, either through tragedy or corruption." His eyes left her for the first time since he'd finished his meal. He looked at the panel of stars hanging above them, and Karoly waited. After the space of two breaths, he turned back to her. "But I'm not asking for your service to the Empire. We have enough young men and women for that. I'm asking for your service to the peace I intend to make with the New Republic."

Karoly frowned. "What do you mean?"

"This business with Moff Disra, Tierce, and Flim is, I'm afraid, only the first of such antagonism toward a treaty with the New Republic. I imagine others from both sides will attempt to sabotage it." Though he didn't move, Karoly had the sudden impression he had leaned forward. "I could use an intelligent, resourceful ally whose loyalty leans neither toward the Empire nor the New Republic. Unbiased."

Karoly looked away, letting her eyes wander his large but not extravagant quarters. "I'm not sure I qualify as unbiased."

"You are certainly more so than my intelligence division."

She stood and moved to the view panel, letting it trick her eyes into believing it was a window. She gazed sightlessly at the stars, the bow of the Star Destroyer, feeling Pellaeon's eyes on her back but unable to face him until she regained her equilibrium.

She should leave, stop wasting his time. The Mistryl did not work for the Empire, whatever pretty language the deal was couched in. But then, hadn't the Eleven agreed to meet with Thrawn?

_That was different_, she tried to convince herself. _That was Thrawn_.

Pellaeon was just an Imperial.

But if what Shada said in those brief moments before she left with Karrde was true – if Emberlene was responsible for its own destruction – then it didn't matter if he was an Imperial.

Of course, if what Shada said was true, then Karoly's whole life had been based on a lie.

She closed her eyes. She couldn't think about that now.

She turned and faced Pellaeon. "What would this job entail, on the slim chance I agreed?"

He seemed to relax slightly, or perhaps the exhaustion was growing harder to hold back. "Gathering intelligence, mostly. Investigating groups or individuals to see if they pose a threat. And, if the occasion requires it, acting against those threats. I hope the latter will not be necessary."

"And you need me because you might have to act against Imperial elements, and you can't trust your own people won't be sympathetic to them."

He nodded. "You would report to me, but you'd act autonomously."

"That's a lot of trust. You don't even know me."

He almost smiled. "No, but just as you could refuse to do anything I asked if you did not approve, I could dissolve the partnership if it does not develop the way I hoped."

They looked at each other for a moment, measuring, and Karoly fought the urge to cross her arms.

Pellaeon stood and pulled a datacard from his pocket. He held it toward her. "This contains instructions on how to contact me. Please think about it and let me know your decision after you've returned Sha D'asima safely home."

He waited, the datacard still extended, and after a moment, Karoly took a step forward and accepted it.

"Thank you for dinner," she said.

He dipped his head in an abbreviated bow, an old-fashioned gesture, and Karoly was suddenly aware of the gray of his hair, the lines of his face. "My pleasure. Can you find your way to back to—" He paused, frowning. "Were you provided with a place to sleep?"

She nodded. "A room was offered, but I'd prefer to stay in the infirmary."

"Of course."

Karoly's fingers tightened around the datacard and, having nothing else to say, she moved toward the door.

As her hand touched the control panel to open it, Pellaeon called, "Thank you for your time, Miss D'ulin. I'll wait for your decision."

She paused on the threshold and looked over her shoulder. The admiral hadn't moved. He stood next to the small table with parade ground posture, his hands behind his back, watching her.

Karoly nodded, and the door slid silently closed.

* * *

She was only on Emberlene a few hours. The Eleven didn't approve of her decision, but they couldn't argue against it, not considering where she and Paloma D'asima had been and why. And it was a good offer – the datacard from Admiral Pellaeon contained details on lodging, contract length, and salary.

Karoly looked at the small room that had been her home since she was thirteen. Two narrow beds, shoved against opposite walls, took up most of the space. One was hers, the other – until recently – had been Shada's. Karoly could count on her fingers the number of nights she'd spent in this room since she finished her training, but it was still odd to think that, the next time she returned, Shada's bed would have been reassigned.

She closed her eyes and let herself remember the remnants of devastation in Shada's face as she'd related Emberlene's true history. Shada had believed it, that much was clear.

Karoly didn't know if she could.

"Is there any proof?" she'd hissed.

"Yes," Shada replied. Firm, certain. She'd seen it.

"Do you have it?"

"No."

"Can you get it?"

Shada looked away. "No, I don't think I can."

Karoly felt her hands shaking. "Then why are you telling me? Why do this?"

"Because you need to know what you believe in. And maybe it doesn't matter--"

"It doesn't!"

"Maybe not. But wouldn't you rather make that decision yourself?"

Karoly had stared at her, read the sorrow and – despite everything – affection in the other woman's eyes. "You want me to give it up?" she whispered. "Everything I am, just leave it behind?"

Pain flashed across Shada's face. "_N__o_. No. I don't want you to be a lie. Just because they lost their honor doesn't mean you have to."

Shada had been right on that roof on Borcorash. Shada had been right about most things in their friendship. Karoly couldn't quell the certainty that Shada was right about this, too.

She was a Mistryl Shadow Guard. She fought for the survival of Emberlene. That would never change.

But that didn't mean she had to cling to the ways — and the lies — of the past.

Everything Karoly owned fit in a large duffle bag. She'd catch the next Mistryl shuttle offworld, and then she'd see if Admiral Pellaeon and his peace treaty could give her something on which to build a future.


	7. 06

**06.**

Hobbie woke to an empty apartment. Morning sunlight attempted to stream through the thick fabric covering the windows but only managed a small trickle. He stuck his head into the bedroom with a tentative, "Karoly?" The empty bed and dark refresher confirmed she was out, but since her things were still visible in the dim light from the window, he decided she was most likely coming back. He'd just have to entertain himself until then.

He washed his face, rinsed out his mouth, and tried to convince his hair not to stick straight up from the back of his head. He gave up after two minutes of struggle and went in search of breakfast.

Karoly's cabinets contained the functional meals of someone without the time or inclination to worry about food. Meal bars, vitamin crisps, dehydrated protein noodles, instant dinners. Things he'd survived on for decades. He pulled a meal bar from its box, opened the refrigeration unit, and smiled. He'd found her indulgence.

Tropical fruit filled the shelves, at least a dozen of each of Soler's famous varieties, along with three different bottles of juice. He pulled a small, purple _quat_ from a mesh bag and took a bite, letting the juice fill his mouth.

He finished his breakfast and was about to put his shoes on simply to give his hands something to do for thirty seconds when the door opened and a woman with short, mussed hair entered the apartment. Hobbie froze, prepared to duck behind the kitchen counter, and hoped Karoly had stocked her drawers with cutlery.

The woman set her load of shopping bags against the wall, pushed her bangs off her forehead, and said, "Hey. Did you find something to eat?"

Hobbie gaped at her.

"What?" Karoly asked. Her eyes flicked up. "Oh. The hair. I forgot — you didn't see it this morning."

It wasn't just the hair, which was now only a handful of centimeters long and a grayish, muddy color lost somewhere between brown and blonde. She'd somehow faded all of her facial features — eyebrows, lips, even her eyes — so that she looked dull and monochromatic.

"You — um." Hobbie closed his mouth and started over. "I'm surprised I didn't hear you leave. I'm a light sleeper."

She smiled. "I can be very sneaky when I want. Here." She tossed him a bottle. "It's your turn."

He looked at the label. "Galactic Void? Is that supposed to be a color?"

"I got you some clothes, too. Toothbrush, razors. Basics. If the clothes don't fit, we can exchange them later."

"You want to dye my hair?" Hobbie asked.

"They know what we look like, Klivian. So we make that knowledge useless."

"Galactic Void isn't a hair color." He could hear the whine in his voice, but he didn't care.

"It will be when I'm done with you." Karoly dumped one of the sacks out on the small table against the wall and separated out trousers, socks, shirts, and even a pair of shoes.

Hobbie crossed his arms, hiding the bottle of hair dye behind him. "That's not very reassuring, considering how yours came out."

"Mine? Mine came out perfectly." She pulled a few comfortingly masculine toiletries — including a bottle of sunburn relief lotion — from a second bag and set them next to his new clothes. "Modeled it off yours. Ash blond — like ashes."

"What? My hair isn't that color." He eyed her head.

"Sorry, Klivian. It is. For another half hour, anyway." She looked at him, her eyes running from his head to his bare toes and back again. "Are you fond of that shirt?"

* * *

Hobbie, his head in the sink, watched black water run from his hair and down the drain. He focused on the swirling pattern it made, the residue it left on the sink's surface, hoping it would distract him from the feeling of Karoly's fingers scraping over his scalp. It worked a little. It would have worked more if he'd been allowed to keep his shirt on and she weren't standing so kriffing close to him.

The water faded to gray and finally clear, and Karoly shut off the faucet. Hobbie stayed bent, his head dripping, and waited for her instructions. He'd lost six arguments already and had decided to hold off having any more until they'd moved on to something new.

Karoly tossed a towel across his shoulders. "Done."

He pulled the towel over his head, rubbing at his hair as he straightened. His back muscles briefly protested, then relaxed into a new position, and he took a deep breath. Draping the towel around his neck, he looked at himself in the mirror.

His hair was a deep, shiny black, glistening in erratic spikes left from the towel. It shouldn't have made that much of a difference, but it washed out his skin, made sharp cheekbones sharper, deep-set eyes deeper. He stared at himself, at Karoly standing beside him, and vaguely wondered who the people in the mirror were.

"That'll do," Karoly said quietly. He met her reflection's gaze. "And I think we'll spike it like that."

"It's—"

"I know."

He turned his head and looked pointedly at her messy blonde locks. "Can I have my hair back?"

She smiled. "It'll wash out in a month or so."

Avoiding his reflection, Hobbie reached for the towel rack and the sleeveless undershirt hanging from it. He pulled the shirt over his head, yanked the bottom of it toward his waistband, and turned to find Karoly staring at his left arm, a wrinkle of confusion in the center of her forehead.

He glanced down at the line circling his arm just above the bicep, more distinct now due to his sunburn. The medtechs swore the synthetic skin responded to sunlight just like the real thing, but in his experience it had always been a little behind.

"Prosthetic," he said. "Right leg, too, from the knee down."

Karoly's eyebrows lifted. "Crash a lot, do you?"

"Not _that _much, but enough." He raised his left hand, watched his fingers move, his wrist bend. It'd been a long time since he'd thought about it. "Leg went in a crash. Lost the arm defecting from the Empire. But the new one's a bit stronger, doesn't get tired." He lowered his arm and shrugged. "Took me a few weeks to get used to it, level out my flying, but since then I've hardly thought about it. I've had the mechanical arm now as long as I had the real one."

Karoly stretched out a hand, then paused and looked at him. He nodded, and her fingertips touched his skin, trailing over the prosthetic joint.

"No difference," he said.

She pulled her hand away and shook her head. "It's amazing. One of the best I've seen."

"The Rebellion needed pilots. Hard to fly worth a damn with anything less than the real thing, so I wound up with better. It's been upgraded a few times since." He cleared his throat. "When the opportunity presented itself."

"When you crashed again, you mean?"

He smiled and left the refresher, which felt smaller by the minute. Karoly followed him. "Plan?" he asked, back in the sitting room.

Karoly moved to the small table covered in clothing and selected a dark pair of trousers, a gray t-shirt, and a pair of athletic shoes.

"How are you at stakeouts?" she asked, handing him the bundle.

"Humble answer? Serviceable. I kind of hate them, though." He looked at the clothing in his arms. The trousers were workman's pants, the sort covered in pockets from hip to knee. The t-shirt was one of the infinite variety of souvenir items available in the main tourist centers and read, "Soler: Fun, Sun, Lum."

"We'll start with the Soleran law enforcement. I doubt they're involved, but we should make sure. Then we'll watch the New Republic Embassy until something interesting happens." She laid the small collection of toiletries she'd bought on top of his new clothes. "Shampoo and soap are in the shower."

Hobbie took two steps toward the refresher and paused. "What if nothing interesting happens?"

Karoly smiled without showing her teeth. "Then we'll make something happen."

* * *

This time, when Wedge answered his comm, he was fully alert and dressed. He still almost fell off his chair.

"Hobbie?" He blinked. "Why do you have Wes's hair?"

Hobbie, sitting in front of Karoly's portable comm, looked up toward the hair he couldn't see but knew was there. "Um, it's a disguise."

The look of horrified fascination didn't leave Wedge's face. "Why?"

"Because Remembrance got Wes and would've gotten me if Karoly hadn't been there, and now I'm kind of in hiding until we can figure out where their base is and rescue Wes, preferably taking Remembrance out completely in the process."

Wedge's mouth hung open for a couple seconds while he processed this, then his face flooded with the same mix of emotions that had shattered one of Karoly's glasses the night before. Hobbie watched and waited for Wedge to move past it and on to the point where he could take action.

It didn't take long. It never did, with Wedge.

"I'll have a squadron of…something to you by tomorrow afternoon," Wedge said, his eyes glazing slightly as he ran calculations and logistics in his head.

Hobbie shook his head. "No. You send a troop of military personnel down here, they're going to notice, and they're going to guess why. They'll hole up and we'll never see them – or Wes – again."

"Then they come in covert."

"That takes time. You need to plan out covers, spread out their arrivals, sort out rendezvous points."

Wedge exhaled sharply through his nose. "You have a better idea?"

Hobbie straightened. "Karoly and I handle it ourselves."

Wedge's eyebrows rose. "All by yourselves?"

"Yes."

"You and this woman you hardly know, who could be working for anyone?"

"She's saved my life twice now. She's on our side."

Wedge looked away, studying something outside the holofield, or maybe seeing nothing at all. "I don't know, Hobbie," he murmured. "There's a lot at stake here, and they seem to be winning."

Hobbie closed his eyes. He knew exactly how much was at stake. Every time he stopped moving, stopped talking, the memory of Wes falling off that building invaded his brain.

When he opened his eyes, Wedge was looking at him again. "They won't be winning for long."

Whatever Wedge read in his face, it must have been convincing. "Okay. But if I don't hear from you every day, I'm going to assume you're dead, and subtlety will be the last thing I worry about."

Hobbie smiled. "I'm touched. But I can't comm you that often. Someone might notice. If you don't hear from me in a week, then you can loose the wrath of Wedge."

Something tightened in Wedge's face. "Do we have a week?"

"I think so. The treaty's anniversary isn't for another eleven days. They need Wes alive until then." Hobbie frowned at the wall to his right. "If I'm right, that is."

Wedge sucked in a breath. "They're going to claim he did it, that he was one of them. Martyr him to their cause to draw in more supporters." Something banged on Wedge's end, and Hobbie guessed he'd slammed a fist into his desk. "If they kill him more than a few hours before the explosion or whatever they have planned, medical examiners will know. So he needs to be alive until they're ready."

Hobbie turned back to the comm. "That's what I'm hoping."

The two men looked at each other.

"Bring him back, Hobbie."

"I will."

Wedge's image disappeared, and Hobbie shut down the comm unit. He slid it back beneath the bed and walked out into the sitting room.

Karoly stood in the kitchen, a glass of juice in her hand. She didn't seem to be drinking it. "Did you get what you needed?"

Hobbie nodded. "He'll hold off for a week. I'll have to contact him again at that point, or he'll have the entire New Republic fleet show up in Soler space for 'training exercises.'"

"Can he do that?"

"Probably."

Karoly's face darkened. "A week should be enough. I'm ready to end this."

Hobbie looked at the red liquid in her hand. "If a week isn't enough, eleven days has to be."

"Then let's get started." Karoly poured her juice down the drain.

* * *

Wes drifted back to consciousness and immediately wished he hadn't.

Everything hurt. Slowly, as his mind cleared, he realized some things hurt more than others. Having nothing better to do, he focused and narrowed down the worst of his injuries to his right leg — he'd broken his leg before, and remembered it feeling about like this — and his right shoulder. Something was very wrong with his shoulder. He took an experimental breath, and his head spun. He added a few cracked, if not broken, ribs to his list.

He'd never fallen off a building before. He decided never to do it again. Too many things got damaged.

Eyes closed, breathing shallow, he took stock. Toes and fingers wiggled, head turned — his spine seemed okay, which made a part of his mind relax. He lay on a metal surface, a floor or table, cold and unyielding where it pressed against joints and bones.

He opened his eyes and carefully lifted his head, trying not to jar his shoulder. His neck protested, stiff and sore, but more from a lack of pillow than any actual injury. He still wore his clothes, but one leg of his trousers had been cut off, his shoes were missing, and his shirt was undone and cut away from his injured shoulder. An IV snaked from its angular stand into his forearm, feeding him a clear liquid. His broken leg, looking impressively swollen and discolored, had been wrapped and set, and white bandages bound a good portion of his torso. Wes laid his head back down.

The room was small and bare — duracrete walls and no windows except the one in the single, flimsy-looking door. A water-stained ceiling loomed above him, a lone panel spitting light into the room. He saw two metal chairs against a wall, a hover stretcher folded and propped in the corner, and a wheeled cart with medical supplies laid out on its surface. He lay on a functional desk made of dull, gray metal.

Lay tied to it, actually.

The door opened and three men walked in. Wes turned his head to look at them. Two were armed. He recognized the one in the middle.

"I saw some bad holoporn like this once," he croaked.

Chard Markin smiled. "Good. You're cognizant. We were worried about head injuries. You slept a long time."

"Well, I am on vacation."

"You're lucky to be alive. Rayson wasn't as lucky, but he did break your fall." Markin dragged one of the chairs next to the desk and sat. "We did what we could for your leg and ribs, but I'm afraid your shoulder is shattered. It's going to require serious medical attention."

Wes didn't think he'd like the answer, but he asked anyway. "And how do I get that?"

Markin leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. "You don't, Major Janson. Not unless you do as we ask."

"Leaving me tied to a desk with a shattered shoulder isn't putting me in a cooperative mood."

"Record a message for us, Major, stating you support our cause, and we'll take you to a hospital."

"But I don't." Wes swallowed. "I'm not interested in joining your Remembrance club."

Markin smiled, his charm almost tangible. "I'm surprised that you, a man who dedicated his life to fighting the Empire, would be content to just sit back and let them get away with their crimes."

Wes raised his eyebrows, pleased to find a part of him that didn't hurt. "The war's over, and we didn't lose. I'm very content. So content that I'm not going to help you." He tried not to cough, but his throat itched from lack of use, and he couldn't stop his body's attempt to solve the problem. His ribs protested loudly, and the movement caused a series of sharp explosions in his shoulder, making his head ring. Through the haze in his vision, he saw Markin signal to one of his companions, who moved toward the medical cart. Wes took a few shallow breaths and watched the other man hand Markin a syringe.

"Perhaps not yet," Markin said, injecting the syringe's contents into Wes's IV catheter, "but you are going to help us."

"Bet you fifty credits I won't." Wes turned his face toward the ceiling as the pain killer coursed through his limbs. Broken bones faded into the background, then slipped away altogether. Things started to get fuzzy.

"We have your wallet, Major Janson," Markin's voice said from farther away than it had been a minute before. "You don't have fifty credits."

Wes's eyes closed. He meant to say something scathing and witty in reply, but he didn't manage it before sleep took him.


	8. 07

**07.**

"I still don't like this plan," Hobbie called toward the closed refresher door. Karoly had been in there for ages, doing whatever women did that took ages in the 'fresher.

"We're doing it anyway," she yelled back.

Hobbie sat on the end of her bed. They'd spent the last week following various people around Soler. The inspector and handful of lieutenants and sergeants from the Soleran law enforcement had been dead ends, as both he and Karoly had suspected. Four days camped out in front of the New Republic embassy hadn't turned up any Remembrance sightings, either.

Every night, Hobbie had followed Executive Security Administrator Chard Markin from the embassy to a small, upscale bar a few blocks away, where he stayed for two or three hours before catching a cab home. Hobbie had never gone inside the bar, unwilling to risk Markin recognizing him.

Tonight, that was Karoly's job.

Hobbie stood, then sat back down. He'd already sent Wedge a heavily encoded message asking him to hold off a few more days, and he'd completed his preparation for the evening an hour ago. He had nothing else to do until Karoly was ready to go.

The refresher door opened, and Karoly took two steps into the bedroom. Hobbie's voice dried up in his throat.

She'd spent the week as a shadow, dull and unremarkable. The kind of person you barely looked at once, much less twice. Now, Hobbie didn't think he'd be able to tear his eyes off her if a Star Destroyer landed in the same room.

Her dress – a vibrant, shimmering green – was short and loose, but clung and draped in such a way that left little to the imagination. The neckline exposed most of her sternum, and the thin straps left her shoulders bare. The dress ended at the tops of her thighs, and from there, it was a long stretch of legs down to strappy heels that wound around her ankle and over her foot like a vine.

Her ash-colored hair was covered with the blond wig he'd seen that first night, now dyed a bright blue with streaks of black running through it. Dark eyes, dark lips, and her skin glowed as though she'd spent every day of her life in the sun.

She smirked at him, and he realized his mouth hung slightly open. "Well?" she asked.

Hobbie cleared his throat. "Um, that should do it. Yeah."

She twirled with a small flourish. The back of the dress was open to her waist. The rest was just more skin.

"Will Markin bite?" Karoly asked, her turn done.

Hobbie focused. "If he doesn't, it's because we should have sent me instead."

She smiled, looking nervous, pleased, and completely at odds with her come-get-me appearance.

"Which wouldn't have worked, of course," Hobbie continued. "I'm not as—" He closed his mouth before he embarrassed himself further.

Karoly smoothed the wig, her eyes wandering somewhere in the vicinity of his left knee. "Oh, I don't know about that."

She walked past him and into the sitting room, and it took Hobbie a second to realize he should follow.

"Guess who I saw while at the shops," Karoly said, moving things around the sitting room and kitchen for no reason he could see. She bent over the table to scoop up the mound of shopping bags from various stores, and her dress shifted, exposing new bits of skin.

Hobbie almost forgot to ask, "Who?"

Karoly straightened, arms clutching the sacks to her chest. "Seline."

Several muscles in his back tensed.

"I followed her home," she continued. "We can decide what to do with her tomorrow."

The corners of Hobbie's mouth curved into a predatory expression. "Good. I told Wedge we have a few leads. I thought I was lying."

"Two isn't a few." Karoly turned and moved into the kitchen, then shoved the bags into the waste receptacle.

"One and a half, really. We don't know Markin's involved."

"That's what I'm here for." She pushed a strand of the wig out of her face and looked at him over the kitchen counter.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

"I still don't like this plan," Hobbie blurted. "You shouldn't have to—it's not right."

"I'm not going home with him, Hobbie." She searched his face and he looked away, unwilling to risk her recognizing something in his expression he couldn't identify himself.

"I know," he said.

After another pause, during which he glared determinedly at the wall, Karoly said, "Let's go."

Hobbie pulled on his jacket and followed her into the night.

* * *

Karoly leaned against the bar and let her eyes lazily sweep the dim, atmospheric room and its occupants. Her gaze lingered on Chard Markin where he sat alone at a table in the corner, just long enough for him to notice. When he looked up at her, she gave him a small smirk and turned toward the bar, signaling for another drink.

She used the few minutes it took the bartender to mix her cocktail to focus. She needed to stop thinking about the look on Klivian's face when he saw her dress, or his jealousy at what this task entailed for her. She'd have to deal with it soon, put a stop to it before it complicated their purpose here.

She should have done it a week ago, before they'd gotten comfortable and built a routine around each other in her small apartment. The problem was that she liked him and let him see more of her than she should. It worried her that, even aware of the danger of their situation, she still wanted a way to avoid shutting him out.

Someone leaned on the bar next to her, and Karoly shoved thoughts of Klivian to the back of her mind. She turned toward her new companion and gave Markin a slow smile.

"Can I get that for you?" he asked.

Karoly nodded, and he asked the bartender to put her new cocktail on his tab.

"You looked lonely back there," she said. "Are you waiting for someone?" She tilted her head, shifted so that the dress shimmered. Markin's eyes followed the flow of light down her hip.

"No one important. Care to join me?"

She followed him back to his table and sat across from him.

"I'm Chard."

"Maora."

"What brings you to Soler, Maora?"

She sipped her drink and crossed her legs. "I needed some time away. I just went through a bad breakup. I thought some time on a beach would make me feel better."

He nodded sympathetically, and she made a point to take in his dark, wavy hair and perfect tan. He was handsome and he knew it, but that just made her job easier.

"May I ask what happened?" Markin leaned back and shook his head. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business."

"No, it's fine." Karoly looked into her drink, then twisted her mouth in a sardonic smile. "It boiled down to what you could call political differences."

Markin cocked his head, interested.

She looked toward the bar and danced her fingers down her neck, preparing to launch into a story about her parents being murdered by the Empire and her boyfriend turning into an advocate for blanket pardons. Instead, her eyes met those of a large man walking toward them. His nose was crooked, and Karoly remembered smashing it against her knee the night Janson had been taken.

This, she guessed, was the unimportant person Markin had been waiting for. She set her drink on the table and uncrossed her legs.

The man's eyes widened, and he lunged toward them. "Boss! That's her! That's—"

Markin started to leap to his feet, but Karoly was faster. She upended the table, tipping it over on top of him and pinning him to the ground. She kicked her chair at the other man, forcing him to dodge, and sprinted for the door. Behind her, she could hear Markin swearing.

She hoped Klivian was ready.

* * *

Hobbie pulled his hat a little lower over his eyes and continued his staring contest with the bar's entrance. Years of emergency repairs had taught him how to hotwire almost anything, so he'd stolen a speeder bike for the occasion. It was new enough to have a good engine and decent maneuverability, but not flashy or overly memorable. If everything went well, he'd sit here for another hour or so, and then Karoly and Markin would exit. She'd turn down whatever offer he made, they'd go their separate ways, and Hobbie would pick her up a few blocks away.

If he'd had any optimism regarding this mission at all, he'd have parked the bike and gone to find a drink. As it was, he kept the engine idling and his eyes on the entrance across the street. He wished he had some way to communicate with Karoly or hear what was going on. His imagination wasn't doing him any favors.

A flash of green burst through the bar's door, and Hobbie slammed the speeder bike into gear. He met her halfway, in the middle of the street, and Karoly threw herself onto the bike behind him as a large, angry man exited the bar at a run. Chard Markin followed, shouting into a comlink.

"What happened?" Hobbie said over his shoulder.

Karoly wrapped her arms around his waist. "Later. Fly us out of here."

He revved the engine and spun the bike around. "That I can do."

He wove through the throng of pedestrians, speeder cabs, bikes, and recreational vehicles filling the street as quickly as he dared—which was much more quickly than most people—and turned the first corner he came to, leaning into the curve. He could feel Karoly pressed against his back, could feel her twist to look behind them.

"Take a left up here," she said in his ear, shouting against the wind. She twisted away again.

This block was longer, but less crowded. Hoping they could blend with the rest of the tourists out for dinner, he slowed down, switching from the main engine to repulsorlifts. He was waiting for a chance to legally pass a cab when Karoly hissed, "_Shassa_."

He looked over his shoulder. Two speeder bikes were coming up fast through the lanes of traffic, weaving in and out with abandon. He pressed the acceleration pedal and wrenched the bike up onto the sidewalk. A laser bolt shot by his head, and some bystanders screamed. He whipped the bike around the cab and back into the street, then kicked in the engine. Karoly's grip tightened as the bike leapt forward, and her hands scrabbled around his waistband. He was too busy dodging oncoming traffic to ask what she needed, but after a second of searching, she pulled his blaster from its spot on his side.

Despite his concentration, what she did next nearly caused him to run into a freight speeder. One at a time, she pulled her legs from where they'd been tucked behind his own and wrapped them over the top of his hips and thighs, then slipped her foot behind his knee. She squeezed against his waist, and the bike swerved to the right, then quickly to the left, just missing a lamppost.

More laser shots flashed by, and something hit the back of the bike. Swearing to himself, teeth clenched, Hobbie got the bike back under control and made a sharp right down an alley. If Remembrance was going to shoot at them, at least this way they were less likely to hit a civilian.

Karoly's hands slipped away from his waist until one merely clung to a fistful of fabric at his back. The other let go completely. Her legs tightened around him even more, and he risked a glance under his arm. She was twisted completely around, arm outstretched, blaster in hand.

Hobbie grinned and bent forward, shrinking his profile. It was time to see what this bike could do.

Over the last week, he'd discovered that Soler City's alleys made up an entire support system to the tourist districts, an extensive labyrinth that connected the city just behind the storefronts and main streets. Most were wide enough for freight speeders, and all supplies and stock for the restaurants and shops went in and out through the alleyways. Hobbie directed the bike deeper into this maze. The Remembrance men chasing them knew the layout better than he did, but he'd wager all his credits he could out-fly them.

He took corners at random, keeping the bike's engine wide open. The frequency of blaster shots flying past them slowed, and a quick glance showed their pursuers falling behind. Karoly had relaxed, only snapping off the occasional shot. Hobbie easily dodged a freight speeder and took another corner just beyond it.

After two seconds, he knew they had a problem. This alley ended a hundred meters ahead without an outlet. He cut the engine and spun the bike around, then sent it back the way they'd come.

As the bike accelerated, Karoly's grip changed, her hands returning to his waist. She leaned forward and shouted in his ear, "Do we have time?"

He shrugged. They'd find out.

Karoly lightly rested her arm on top of his shoulder, blaster aimed toward the alley's exit. The Remembrance thugs had multiplied—instead of the two he'd seen earlier, there were now four. Laser bolts filled the alley, and Hobbie juked the bike back and forth, hoping it'd be enough. Fire burst across his left shoulder. A heartbeat later, Karoly flinched against him.

Her shots took one man off his bike and sent another careening to the side and out of their way. Hobbie aimed the bike toward a third, clipping his directional vanes, spinning him into a building. From the corner of his eye, Hobbie saw both bike and rider shred themselves against the stone building, but his attention was focused on keeping the bike in control, muscling it upright and around the corner.

That put the Remembrance pursuers behind them, but still too close. Karoly jerked again, and he thought he heard a hiss of pain. The bike pulled steadily to the right, at least one blaster bolt having found its mark.

Hobbie pushed the bike as hard as he could. A quick glance under his arm showed two bikes close behind. He scanned the alley they rushed down, searching for inspiration. His gaze drifted up.

Civilian speeder bikes could reach an altitude of ten meters, but the buildings surrounding them stood three or four stories, well above the bike's range. He didn't intend to let that stop him.

He saw what he needed ten seconds ahead, and groped blindly for Karoly's knee. She'd twisted away to fire at their pursuers, legs anchoring her to him and the bike, but at his touch, he felt her against his back.

He turned his head and shouted over his shoulder, hoping she'd hear. "Hold on! Both hands!"

She obeyed instantly, wrapping her arms around his chest. The blaster dug into his ribs.

He steered the bike toward a large, square waste receptacle, hauling back on the outrigger so that the bike rose in the air. As the dumpster flashed beneath them, Hobbie cut the engine and slammed on the brakes at the same time that he cranked the repulsorlifts to their highest level.

The bike bounced nearly straight up.

Nearly. Residual momentum kept them moving forward, but he'd counted on that. Twisting the bike in midair, he gave it a short burst of propulsion, sending them across the alley.

Below them, the Remembrance bikes flashed by.

Gravity took hold, trying to pull them back down, and Hobbie wrenched the bike's nose up another half meter by brute force and slammed the acceleration pedal all the way back. They barely cleared the landing of the fire escape. He opened up the repulsorlifts one last time, vertically bouncing the bike another several meters. A hard wrench to the right, another propulsion burst, and with a scream from the engine, the bike slipped over the edge of the building's roof.

The bike shot over the rooftops of Soler until Hobbie judged he'd put several klicks between them and what was left of the Remembrance gang. He doubted they'd be able to duplicate his trick, but he brought the bike to a stop on a low building, counting on the taller ones around them to shield them from view, just in case. He peeled his fingers from the bike's handles and took a deep breath, feeling Karoly shift with the movement. She still clung to him, her forehead pressed between his shoulder blades.

"Kriffing hell, Klivian," she muttered into his back.

Hobbie smiled, then laughed, and the adrenaline started to drain away. "Sorry. I'll have to come up with a name for that one."

Karoly straightened and unwound her legs from his, her grip on his torso loosening until her hands rested lightly against his waist. He twisted in his seat to look at her. Her wig had disappeared somewhere during their flight, and her short, blondish hair was wind-matted into rough spikes.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She made a face and lifted her left arm. A nasty blaster burn blackened a swath of skin just under the curve of her shoulder.

"Sithspit," he said, gently turning her arm so he could examine the wound.

"It doesn't hurt much yet," she said. "It will later. You've got one, too."

He looked down at his shoulder, noticing the graze that had burned through his jacket and down to the skin. It wasn't serious, but as he examined it, his body suddenly remembered it was there. "Oh. Ow. _Ow._"

Karoly laughed, sounding tired. "Can we go home?"

"Yeah." He turned around and started the bike. As they rode back to Karoly's apartment, she leaned against him, her head resting between his shoulders.


	9. 08

**08.**

By the time they reached her apartment, Karoly was pale and shaky, and Hobbie made her sit down as soon as the door was locked behind them. He dug the first aid kit out of her closet and spread its contents on the surface of the small table next to the kitchen. He gave her a dose of pain medication first, then kept an eye on her while he sorted out antiseptic and bacta patches. The drugs worked quickly, and by the time he was ready to clean her arm, she sat with her eyes closed, almost relaxed.

Hobbie swabbed the area around the burn, removing any dirt that may have been introduced during the chase. "This is bad," he said. "Just a hair shy from being a direct hit. You'll need more than a patch, or it'll scar."

Karoly shrugged. "We haven't got more than that. I'll be fine." She turned her head to watch him work. "At least we know Markin's involved." She told him how she'd been recognized by one of the men from the club the week before and had to make a run for it. "I guess you remember the face of the woman who broke your nose."

One corner of Hobbie's mouth lifted. "I guess so." He pressed a bacta patch over her arm and smoothed out its seal. "That's all I can do. Despite my best efforts, you'll live."

She smiled down at her bandage and stood. "Your turn."

He shook his head. "You should change clothes first."

She looked down at herself, her expression one of vague surprise that she still wore the revealing green dress. "Yeah."

She moved toward the bedroom, limping slightly, and shut the door halfway. Hobbie tried not to think about the comfort and intimacy of that gesture, relegating it to exhaustion and the drugs in her system and forcing himself to focus, instead, on how he'd get her to show him where else she was hurt.

In the meantime, his shoulder screamed for attention. He shrugged his right arm out of his jacket and gently pulled at the fabric covering his left shoulder. The blaster bolt had melted the cheap, synthetic material of the jacket into his skin, and it was stuck fast. He gave a sharp, experimental tug and gasped as his skin protested. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and a firm hold of the collar of his jacket, and then, in one quick motion, ripped the fabric away.

After that, he had to sit down for a moment. By the time he felt up to dealing with the sleeve of his t-shirt, Karoly had returned, dressed in loose athletic pants and a tank top. She'd washed her face, removing her dramatic makeup. There was some color in her cheeks now, and she gave him a sharp look.

"What did you do to yourself, Hobbie?" She lifted a small pair of trimmers from the first aid kit and cut away the sleeve of his shirt.

"It was stuck," he said.

"And in removing it, I can't decide if you left more fabric or removed more skin. You're bleeding now." She pressed some gauze to the wound, and he hissed. "Can you reach that syringe? I've only got one arm."

He injected the drugs into his thigh and closed his eyes, waiting for them to take the edge off. After a few breaths, the pain started to dull, and he opened his eyes. Karoly dropped a clump of blood-soaked gauze on the table and pressed a clean stack to his shoulder.

"You've got coagulant," Hobbie said, pointing to a packet.

"Yes, but it'll coat the whole wound, and I need to be able to see to remove the bits of material still fused to your skin."

He grimaced. "That's not going to be fun."

"Nope." Karoly smiled as she discarded the soaked gauze and reached for a small pair of forceps. "What do you want to talk about to take your mind off it?"

Hobbie thought while her fingertips brushed over the wound, somehow painful and soothing at the same time. She positioned the forceps, and at the first lance of pain down his arm, he asked, "Who do you work for?"

Karoly's fingers stilled for a moment before continuing their work. "The Empire."

He nodded.

"You're not surprised?" She worked a piece of melted material free, apologizing under her breath. "I thought I'd get a stronger response than that."

Hobbie stopped himself from shrugging. "There are only so many interested parties in this situation, and you're not New Republic." He winced as she removed another piece. "Is that why you didn't tell me earlier? You thought I'd react badly?"

"I would have, a year ago. It's still hard to admit. The—" She stopped and took half a step back. Hobbie looked up at her, and she studied him, seeming to struggle with herself. He waited, holding her eyes, until she moved forward and gently traced the periphery of his wound with her fingers. In a quiet voice, she continued. "Historically, the Mistryl Shadow Guard don't work with the Empire."

Hobbie straightened in his chair. "You're Mistryl? Really? I mean, it explains a lot, but I didn't know they were _real_. You just hear whispers, legends."

Karoly laughed. "Yes, we're real. We just don't advertise our identity. Ruins the mystique."

"Why do you work for the Empire, then, if Mistryl aren't supposed to?"

She took a moment to reply, perhaps deciding how much to tell him. "Our planet was bombarded a long time ago. Cities razed to the ground, economy and social structures destroyed. The Mistryl were created as a form of revenue. We hire ourselves out as mercenaries and send our earnings back home to support our people. Food, medicine, all the basic necessities are bought with Mistryl sweat and Mistryl blood." She paused to remove a piece of fabric from the forceps. Hobbie couldn't take his eyes off her face.

"We never worked for the Empire," she continued, "because we were told they were the ones who attacked us, who left us destitute, clinging to the edge of survival by our fingernails. But a year ago I learned that the Empire didn't do this to us. We did it to ourselves."

She laid the forceps on the table and picked up a bottle of antiseptic. "We were greedy, a tyrant, and our victims lashed out at us in self-defense. They destroyed us before we could destroy them. Since I found out, I—" Her hand tightened around the bottle it held. "The reason I do what I do is still there. The situation on my home planet hasn't changed. I'm still needed. But one of the fundamental principles on which my life was founded—this righteous anger at being wronged, pride in our ability to rise above our devastation without anyone else's help — that's gone. It's like — it's like—" Her hands dropped to her side and she looked up at the ceiling. "It's like one of my directional rudders is still functional, but the other's been blasted off. It takes everything I have some days to keep myself on course."

Hobbie watched her soak a piece of gauze in antiseptic and braced himself for the sting. "I appreciate you finding an analogy a starfighter jock can understand, but that doesn't explain how you wound up working for the Empire."

She paused in the process of cleaning his arm to shoot him an amused look. "Admiral Pellaeon approached me shortly after that fiasco with the fake Thrawn, once he'd started peace talks with the New Republic. He wanted an unbiased asset who could make sure something like that didn't happen again. It was a good offer, something worth doing. Our arrangement is fluid, I act autonomously, and I can believe in what I'm doing. I needed that."

"You work directly for the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Navy," Hobbie said, his eyes closed. He suddenly felt very tired. "Protecting his peace treaty with the New Republic."

"Yes."

He sighed. "Life has gotten weird in the last year." He opened his eyes and looked at her. "I'm retiring. Wes and I, both, right after the big Galactic Peace Day celebration on Coruscant."

Karoly smiled, a bacta patch in her hand. "Congratulations."

"Not really." He looked toward the kitchen while she carefully pressed the patch over his shoulder. "It's all I know. I'm not sure what I'm going to do. Go back to Ralltiir for a while, maybe." He shrugged, then regretted it.

"Isn't there anything you always wanted to do? Something you never had time for?" She stepped away, and he twisted his head around to squint down at his neatly bandaged shoulder.

"Not really. I just wanted to fly. The Rebellion gave me something to fight for, but I never thought I'd live this long." He could feel her watching him and looked up into her face. "I never thought beyond the war. Never let myself."

The smile she gave him was made of understanding. She turned toward the table and started putting the medical supplies back in the kit box one at a time, her injured arm hanging motionless at her side. Hobbie watched her.

"Stop it, Derek."

He flinched. "Stop what?"

She looked up, her eyes sadder than he'd ever seen. "You don't want me."

"Why not?" he countered automatically. He could feel his face flushing, but realized he wanted to know the answer to his question. There was an aspect to this week he'd spent with her, a comfort and an excitement he thought he could handle on an extended basis. Maybe more than handle. Maybe enjoy. Need.

Karoly turned back to the first aid kit. "There's no point. After this…" She closed the kit and carried it toward the bedroom.

Hobbie swallowed and watched her limp across the room. "Wait."

She stopped, but she didn't turn.

"We still need that. You've been limping since we ditched the bike."

"It's nothing. I'll take care of it."

"Show me."

"Hobbie," she pleaded.

"Show me."

She came back to the table and set down the kit. With a look of challenge, she pushed down the waistband of her pants a few centimeters until she exposed a laser graze on her hip. Keeping his face carefully neutral, Hobbie peeled the back off a bacta patch and smoothed it over the angry burn. When he finished, he looked up. He couldn't read the expression on Karoly's face.

"I'm sorry," she said. Then she turned, walked into the bedroom, and shut the door.

* * *

Wes woke to a wave of pain. He gasped.

"There you are. Come on, pay attention."

A vise tightened around his broken leg, and Wes bared his teeth. His back arched off the desk, causing another burst of pain as his ribs protested.

"Look at me!"

Wes dragged his eyes open and looked blearily up into a large face hovering just above his. As his vision cleared, he recognized one of the men who usually accompanied Chard Markin when he stopped by for his daily chat. Markin seemed determined to convert Wes to his way of thinking, and his lack of progress hadn't discouraged him so far. Needling him was Wes's only form of entertainment, and the daily visit was the only way he could mark the passage of time.

"What do you want?" Wes mumbled. "I'm fresh out of ration bars."

The man — Thurne, Wes thought — growled. "Your friend and his woman killed two good men tonight. Horton's speeder hit the wall. There wasn't enough of him left to bother burying."

Wes tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. "Thanks for bringing me the good news. I don't have holonet access in here."

Thurne slammed a fist against Wes's leg. Stars erupted behind Wes's eyes. "I'm gonna find your friend, and I'm gonna kill him. But first, I'll make sure this leg isn't healing too—"

"Thurne!"

The big man jumped away, and Wes looked toward the doorway. Markin stood silhouetted against the light from the hall.

Thurne straightened. "But Boss, Horton and Cheyn—"

"Knew what they were getting into," Markin said sharply. "They died for their cause, as every one of us is prepared to do. You can go."

Thurne held his ground for five long seconds, then stomped toward the door. Markin watched him go.

"I'm sorry about that," he said. "He and Horton were close."

"So I gathered." Wes relaxed as the pain started to recede.

Markin walked into the middle of the room. "Major Klivian and his mysterious companion did cause us quite a lot of trouble tonight."

"That's what happens when you make a Rogue angry."

Markin made a thoughtful noise. "And you?"

"Oh, I'm biding my time. Lulling you into a false sense of security."

The other man smiled and nodded. "Do you know anything about the woman? She helped Klivian interrupt your transfer, too."

"No idea," Wes said. "The only women we managed to meet in the two days of actual vacation we had turned out to be yours."

"Of course." Markin reached for Wes's IV and raised the drug dosage. "You've had a rough evening. I'll let you sleep."

"Thanks. The twenty hours of sleep a day I've been getting this week haven't been enough."

Markin chuckled. "Well, you did say you were on vacation."

"This wasn't in the brochure," Wes slurred. He barely noticed Markin leave, so caught up was he in thoughts of Hobbie causing trouble and Karoly lending her particular brand of help.

Despite the throb in his leg, Wes felt better than he had in days.


	10. 09

**09.**

They split up the next afternoon, Hobbie to the New Republic Embassy, Karoly to Seline's apartment. It was necessary, but Karoly still felt relieved they wouldn't have to spend the day together, fighting the new awkwardness in order to pose as tourists.

They'd hardly spoken that morning, using the minimum amount of words needed to outline the day's plan, and danced around each other in the kitchen. Over the last week, the space between them had slowly lessened — Hobbie reached around her for a piece of fruit or a glass, or offered to wrestle her for the last spoon. He'd throw himself onto the sofa next to her at the end of the day, not seeming to notice that various limbs — which suddenly became gangly, a word that could rarely be applied to his compact pilot's build — kept bumping her. This morning, he'd sat in the living room until she was done in the refresher instead of squeezing in next to her like usual to brush his teeth.

She hadn't realized how often they came in contact with one another until it stopped.

Karoly frowned and consciously relaxed the muscles of her jaw. Even thinking like this was ridiculous. They'd only known each other a handful of days. It was an attraction borne of heightened danger and extended proximity — that was all. Once this was over and they went their separate ways, the longing would fade as quickly as it had built.

She didn't know where she would go next, or for how long. Hobbie's life, though, could finally have some stability. His life could be a _life_. She was exactly the wrong person for him to start something with, and she always would be. She couldn't give up her duties as a Mistryl anymore than he could have stopped fighting while the Empire was still an enemy. The difference was that Emberlene might never be whole again. She might never get to rest.

Karoly adjusted her position, stretching out her legs and turning her datapad slightly to negate a glare. She'd been in this caf shop for over four hours, pretending to work on her datapad while actually watching the small apartment building across the street. The windows of Seline's third floor apartment had been transparent enough when Karoly first arrived for her to see the young woman staring out the window, chin in her hand. She'd since moved on to other activities, dimming the windows, but she hadn't left.

Karoly finished off her cup of caf, the dregs cold and thick, and made a decision. She packed up her datapad, left a tip on the table, and walked outside to hail a cab.

Fifteen minutes later she stood at the edge of the main city plaza, embassies towering on either side of her. She studied the placement of the souvenir stalls and the way the crowd moved, judging where Hobbie would have positioned himself today. She pulled her comlink from her pocket and buzzed him.

He answered immediately. "Hi."

"Where are you?"

"Near the sandwich stand on the northeast corner." He paused. "Are you here?"

"I will be. Stay put." She set off across the plaza, scanning faces while she pretended to scan menus and merchandise.

He found her before she found him.

"Don't get the seasoned chakburger. It tastes like sand."

Karoly turned and promptly forgot her retort. She stared at Hobbie.

He looked up and smiled at the ridiculous hat sitting on his head. "Do you like it?"

It was a lurid shade of orange, so bright it hurt her eyes to look at in direct sunlight. The wide brim had sun-shaped holes punched in it, spotting Hobbie's body with little glowing suns that danced whenever he moved his head. On the hat's holographic band, the word "SOLER" flashed over a scrolling background of scenic landscapes.

"It's horrible," Karoly said, shielding her eyes from it with her hands. "Why would you ever buy that?"

"The salesman was very persistent. It was either hand over a few credits or shoot him. I thought the hat would attract less attention."

"I'm not sure about that."

Hobbie grinned, and something inside Karoly relaxed. "What are you doing here?" he asked, amusement fading. "Did something happen?"

"No. Absolutely nothing happened, and I don't think it's going to." She started walking, and Hobbie followed. "As far as I can tell, Seline's under some sort of house arrest, either self-imposed or Remembrance-imposed." She looked at Hobbie and stopped. "Please take that off. I can't take you seriously."

"Aw. I was going to give it to Wes as a sorry-I-let-you-get-kidnapped present."

"You still can. Just don't wear it in the meantime. Please?"

He made a show of thinking, then plucked the hat from his head, rolled it up, and shoved it in a back pocket. "Better?"

"Much." She resumed walking. "Any sign of Markin?"

Hobbie shook his head. "Never showed up. I got reckless a couple hours ago and went inside. The new receptionist said poor Mr. Markin had called in that morning with the Verga flu. It usually takes three or four days to run its course, so he wouldn't be back until next week."

"Three or four days," Karoly muttered. "How convenient."

"We scared them last night. I think the whole group has gone to ground." They left the busy plaza behind, turning down a quiet side street. "So why the change in plans?" Hobbie asked. "Get bored?"

"Not at all. I enjoy drinking cheap caf for hours and staring at buildings."

"So you just missed me, then?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Hobbie clamped his jaw shut and looked at his feet, his face falling into that somber expression he wore so often. Karoly reminded herself that this was good, this was necessary, this was better for both of them in the end.

"I thought I'd ask Seline if she knows where Remembrance keeps their base," she said into the silence. "I figured you'd want to come along."

"Absolutely. It's been a while since I did any breaking and entering."

They didn't speak again until they reached the apartment.

* * *

Hobbie leaned against the wall of the corridor outside Seline's flat, keeping an eye on the stairwell while Karoly picked the lock. Through the door, he could hear a holovid. Seline had the volume loud enough to cover the sound of Karoly's work and probably their entrance.

His fingers twitched against the butt of his blaster, and he couldn't seem to relax his jaw enough to keep his teeth from grinding together. The evening had been one of the most excruciating in Hobbie's memory. For a few moments in the plaza, things had seemed all right between him and Karoly, and then he'd ruined it. As soon as they'd reached her apartment, she'd fled to the bedroom, hurriedly suggesting he get some sleep while he could before she shut the door. He hadn't seen her again until an hour before midnight. He'd slept a little, enough to get him through whatever happened tonight, and had spent the rest of the evening trying to figure her out.

He hadn't made much progress.

A final click, and the door opened a couple centimeters. Karoly stood, and Hobbie moved in close behind her, pulling his blaster from his waistband. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, her own blaster out and level. Hobbie followed.

Seline lay sprawled across a sofa in the next room, a romance holo coming to its emotional climax on the screen hanging on the wall. Hobbie and Karoly moved around opposite ends of the sofa and into Seline's line of sight. She sat up and started to scream, but Karoly lunged forward, slapping a hand across the girl's mouth and pressing her back into the cushions.

Seline thrashed, her screams muffled, and Karoly lifted her blaster and pointed the barrel directly between Seline's eyes.

"Quiet," Karoly said.

Seline obeyed, panting but still.

"Do what we ask, and we'll be out of here in three minutes without hurting you. Think you can behave for three minutes?"

Seline nodded, and tears slipped from her eyes and ran down her face, pooling against Karoly's fingers. Hobbie remembered Wes falling over the side of a building and took a small step forward, steadying his aim. Seline's eyes flicked toward him and then returned to Karoly, who eased her hand away from the girl's mouth.

"Where's Janson?" Hobbie demanded.

"At the warehouse," Seline whispered. "On the north side of the city."

"Where exactly?" Karoly asked.

"By the old riverbed. Langhur Street. It used to be the Pyhr Sol Wine warehouse before they went out of business."

"What else is there?"

Seline sniffed. "Everything. Everyone."

"Markin? The bomb?"

Seline twitched. "How did you—"

"We're good guessers," Hobbie said. "Here's another: you think your pain legitimizes murder."

Seline came off the sofa with her hands raised, reaching for Hobbie's throat, but Karoly shoved her back down and wrapped a hand around the girl's throat.

"That's not behaving," she said. Her fingers tightened until Seline nodded. Karoly loosened her grip.

"He has no right—" the girl started.

"Neither do you," Hobbie snapped.

Karoly shot him a look — half worry, half glare — then turned back to Seline. "Who'd you lose?" she asked.

"My brother," Seline whispered. "It was me and him for so long, and now it's just me."

Karoly looked at Hobbie, then slipped her blaster inside her jacket. He stepped forward to cover Seline, who glared up at him, her eyes cold.

"They wanted you, too," she said. "Two is more convincing than one. One might be crazy. Two are a movement."

"The war's over." He shifted his grip on his blaster. His fingers ached from the tension. "That's a good thing. It means the dying stops. If Remembrance does this, if they set off this bomb, more brothers die. If they get what they want and restart the war, more brothers die."

Karoly pulled a syringe from her pocket.

"What's that?" Seline asked, sounding resigned.

"It'll make you sleep. That's all."

"Will I wake up?"

Karoly paused, the needle just above Seline's arm. "Yes."

Seline laid her head on the back of the sofa, and Karoly injected the drugs into her arm. A few seconds later, she was unconscious.

Karoly stood and moved toward Hobbie. He looked at her, vaguely aware he was shaking. The rage from the night Wes had been taken, carefully buried beneath actions and plans and the mission, had slipped free and flooded him. Anger at girl on the floor, at Remembrance for using her. Anger at Karoly for touching him in a way that could only be called a caress and then, moments later, closing the door on a possibility he'd only just started to realize. Anger at himself for letting her.

"I hate this," he said, his eyes slipping away from hers. "All of it."

Karoly took the blaster from his hand and slipped it into an inner pocket of his jacket. "I know."

They locked the door behind them as they left.

* * *

Two hours later, Hobbie slipped another power pack into a pocket of the combat vest he wore over his t-shirt. He tugged at the bottom of the thick material, nodded when it barely budged, and wondered if he could fit anything else in the large pockets on the outside of either leg.

"I still don't like this plan," Karoly said. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking sleek and deadly in a black jumpsuit. She had a blaster on each hip, a knife on each thigh, and Hobbie had seen her slip a stiletto into her right boot. He figured she had a whole other set of weaponry stashed on her person, but he resembled a walking armory himself, so they made a good pair.

Walking into a warehouse full of burgeoning terrorists and leaving with an injured man in tow would take two walking armories.

"I didn't like your plan last night, but we went through with it anyway. Same rules apply to mine." He shoved a blaster into the holsters on either hip.

"What if they just shoot you?"

"Then you won't have to worry about me getting in your way."

She pushed herself off the wall. "Don't say that."

He shrugged. "Why not? Once Seline wakes up tomorrow, she'll tell everyone she knows that we know where Remembrance lives. We've got one shot at this, and my plan is our only plan."

"I still don't like it."

"Noted. Ready?"

She lifted the small satchel she'd stuffed with compact explosives and medical equipment. "Yeah."

They moved toward the door, but as Karoly reached for the control panel, Hobbie blocked it with his hand.

"Wait. Before we go, I just—I wanted to say—um."

She looked at him, a touch of expectancy in her eyes.

_What the hell?_ he thought, and kissed her.

She rocked back on her heels in surprise, and he slipped a hand behind her neck. He heard a thud as she dropped her satchel, and then her fingers were in his hair.

And then she was everywhere.

A door slammed out in the corridor, and they sprang a meter apart. Hobbie felt like he'd just sprinted a kilometer, and his hands twitched at the loss of contact. They stared at each other.

"Well," he said, trying to breathe normally.

"Well." Karoly smoothed her hair where his fingers had mussed it. "We should…"

"Right." Neither of them moved. "Here's hoping we don't die."

"Yes," she agreed softly.

He looked at her, at the openness of her face, her eyes, and nearly kissed her again. But as he watched, she rebuilt her walls, shoved herself down behind a mask, and he followed her lead without conscious thought.

They faced each other, expressionless and ready for battle.

"Let's go," he said.

They moved out.

* * *

They crouched in the shadows at the base of a warehouse, peering through the night at the Pyhr Sol Wine building fifty meters away.

"Give me twenty minutes," Karoly breathed, adjusting the strap of her satchel so it lay snug against her back.

Hobbie nodded. "See you when it's over."

She didn't respond, just brushed her fingers against his jaw and slipped silently away.

Hobbie settled in to wait, a timer ticking down in his head. Sitting in his cockpit, the swirl of hyperspace around him and battle waiting on the other side, he'd taught himself how to relax — to find a few moments of rest before everything became adrenaline and instinct and living from second to second. This was no different.

He put his forced idleness to use, watching for movement. Remembrance weren't much for security. He and Karoly hadn't seen any sort of patrol in the half hour they'd spent circling the warehouse, marking the locations of doors and windows, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be one. Hobbie faced the main street entrance now. In the back of the warehouse, four large loading doors sat atop a wide ramp that spanned the width of the building. One of them had been open, exposing half a dozen speeders parked in haphazard formation.

When he judged that less than five minutes remained of his promised twenty, he stood and spent a minute flexing his legs until the last of the stiffness was banished, then eased around the corner of the building. He stopped and waited another minute for some sign that his appearance had been noted, but nothing moved.

He already held a blaster in his right hand, but he pulled the other from the holster on his hip with his left and started slowly across the street, eyes looking everywhere at once. He reached the warehouse door and beat against it with his fist.

"Hey! _Hey! _Open the door! _Open it!_" He hammered and shouted, making as much noise as he could, but the door remained closed. He hadn't expected anything else.

He took a step back and lifted his arms, one blaster pointed squarely at the door, the other aimed toward the control panel. A single shot melted the circuitry, and the fire safety programming kicked in. The door sprang open.

Before the door had disappeared into the wall, Hobbie fired through the opening, the concentric blue circles of the stun setting spreading through the interior space. He saw its light strike two men, sending them to the floor. He brought his other blaster to bear, his thumb flicking the laser setting, and fired again.

He heard shouts, the crash of something falling to the floor. He paused and let them get a good look at him, then moved inside. Men ducked behind stacks of crates that flanked the doorway, and he fired again, both arms sweeping to the side toward them.

Two steps, three, then blue flashed in his peripheral vision and the world went dark.


	11. 10

**10.**

The door opened, and Wes dragged his eyes open. Two Remembrance members, followed by two more with blasters, hauled a black-clad form into the room. They propped the unconscious man into the chair Markin used during his chats.

"Get the stimulator," the first man, Thurne, snapped. The second complied, fetching a hypodermic from the table against the wall and injecting its contents into the unconscious man's neck.

Into Hobbie's neck, Wes realized, finally recognizing the face beneath the unfamiliar hair. His muscles strained against the restraints and injuries keeping him immobile.

Hobbie jerked and lifted his head. His feet pushed against the floor, searching for enough purchase to keep him in his chair. The two men with guns lifted them, made a show of aiming. Hobbie didn't seem to notice.

"Hobbs," Wes croaked.

The other pilot's head bobbed his direction. "Hey, Wes," he said groggily. "Thought I'd rescue you."

"Try harder next time."

Hobbie looked around the room. "Yeah."

"See? It is him," Thurne said.

Another man appeared in the doorway. "Markin's on his way."

Thurne lifted Hobbie's chin off his chest, his fingers digging into the pilot's jaw. "Where's the woman?" he asked.

Hobbie mumbled something.

Thurne shook him. "Speak up. Where is she?"

"Major Derek Klivian, New Republic Starfighter Command," Hobbie slurred, his hands gripping the back legs of the chair. "Serial number 924-alpha-gamma-347."

Wes growled, teeth bared, but no one paid him any attention. He'd have given almost anything for a blaster and the free movement of his right arm.

Thurne straightened, his hand still gripping Hobbie's face, and addressed one of the men aiming a blaster at their prisoner's chest. "Grint, take some men, go look for the woman. She's probably out there somewhere."

Grint nodded, but before he could move toward the door, the ceiling above his head exploded.

Wes flinched, blinking against the plaster dust that filled the room. A figure dropped out of the ceiling, landing next to Grint. A quick movement of the figure's hand, and Grint went limp.

Hobbie jerked his head out of the surprised Thurne's hand, brought his knees to his chest, and kicked. Thurne took both feet to his stomach, and the force pushed Hobbie over backward. He rolled and came up with the chair in his hands, which he swung into the face of another attacker. By that time, Thurne had regained his feet.

Wes yelled a warning that was lost amidst the chaos of the room, but Hobbie was already turning. He dropped the chair in favor of his fists, stepped into Thurne's charge, and punched him. Thurne staggered, and Hobbie grabbed him by the arm and the back of the neck and slammed his head against the wall.

Wes winced at the impact. Thurne slid to the floor.

Movement drew Wes's gaze to the other side of the room, where the mysterious figure from the ceiling — it could only be Karoly — rose to her feet from a roll in a single fluid motion that placed her directly in front of the only Remembrance member still standing. She'd already dispatched the fourth.

The man tried to bring his blaster, which had been tracking toward Hobbie, to bear on Karoly, but she soundlessly slid a stiletto into the side of his neck. His eyes widened, and for a moment they looked at each other. Then she pulled the knife from his throat and he collapsed.

She turned, her eyes sweeping across Wes from his feet to his face, then continuing on until they found Hobbie. "Are you okay?" she asked.

Hobbie nodded. "I told you it'd work. Though you handled your end a little more dramatically then I intended. The ceiling?"

She shrugged. "I couldn't resist."

Hobbie smiled, and even though they stood three meters apart, Wes suddenly felt like he was intruding. It only lasted a moment, and then Hobbie moved toward him, fishing through a pocket.

"Hey, Wes." He flicked open a knife and started sawing through the thick canvas straps tying Wes to the table. While he worked, his eyes took in Wes's injuries. "You look terrible."

"So do you. What'd you do to your head?"

"It's my clever disguise." One of the straps came loose, and Hobbie moved to the next. "Sorry it took me so long."

"You're lucky I'm a patient man." Wes squinted up at the not at all groggy Hobbie. "Faker."

Hobbie grinned with one corner of his mouth. "Did I have you worried?"

Wes scoffed, then winced as he tested limbs that had been immobile for over a week. Karoly moved to his other side and pulled a hypodermic from a small bag she'd had on her back. Hobbie pulled the IV from his arm and headed for the stretcher propped in the corner of the room.

"Field cocktail," Karoly said, lifting the syringe. "Pain killers and adrenaline."

Wes nodded. "I'm familiar with it." He tilted his head, giving her access to his neck. "Hi, Karoly. Nice to see you again."

"Hi, Janson. Sorry I got you into this." With a quick prick and a whoosh of compressed air, the drugs entered his system.

"Don't worry about it." He swallowed and closed his eyes, waiting for the dizziness caused by the rush of adrenaline to fade. "It'll make a great story. I'll get dates off this for months."

"He's not kidding, unfortunately," Hobbie said. Wes heard the whine of repulsorlifts and opened his eyes. Hobbie looked at him apologetically. "There's no way to do this without it hurting like hell."

"Then let's just do it." He gritted his teeth while Karoly and Hobbie transferred him from the desk to the floating stretcher. It wasn't nearly as bad as he thought it was going to be. "That's good stuff, Karoly."

"Try this." Hobbie pressed a blaster into the hand of his uninjured arm.

Wes lifted it and smiled. "That's even better."

Hobbie pushed the stretcher toward the door, Karoly in the lead. She checked the hall, then turned and faced Hobbie from Wes's feet.

"Speeders are to the right," she said.

The stretcher shifted. "But you're going left," Hobbie said in a flat, careful voice.

"You need to get Janson out of here and to a hospital. I'm going to find that bomb and make sure it doesn't fulfill its purpose."

The adrenaline currently making up a significant percentage of his blood made Wes hyper-aware of his surroundings — an awareness that, when mixed with the pain killer, could morph into paranoia. But he didn't think he was imagining the weird, unspoken conversation happening above him, even if he could only see Karoly's side of it.

"Be careful," Hobbie said.

Karoly nodded and placed a light hand on Wes's ankle. "Take care of yourself, Janson."

"You, too, Karoly. I owe you a drink or fifty."

She checked the hallway again, and with a last look at Hobbie, moved quickly to the left. Hobbie moved to the opposite end of the stretcher and pulled it behind him as they set off down the right-hand corridor. Wes twisted his head around to see Karoly slip around a corner.

"What was that all about?" he asked.

"What was what?" Hobbie asked, one hand between Wes's feet, the other holding a blaster.

"You and Karoly."

Hobbie paused at a junction, looked both directions, then continued. Wes stared at the back of his head and waited for an answer.

"Well?"

"It's nothing."

"You're a rotten liar."

"You can give me lessons when we get off this planet."

"I've been trying to teach you how to lie for years. If you haven't picked it up yet, you never will."

"And yet I've survived this long."

"Only because I was around."

Hobbie stopped and turned, giving Wes one of his looks. "And who managed to fall off a building and get himself kidnapped?"

Wes frowned. "They wouldn't have got me if I hadn't fallen off the building first, and that wasn't my fault."

A door opened a few meters down the hall, and Markin stepped into the corridor. Hobbie whipped back around, but he wasn't fast enough. His blaster pointed toward the floor; Markin's was leveled at his chest.

"Dammit, Wes," Hobbie said, taking a step backward so that he stood next to Wes's knees­ — and blocked Wes's blaster from Markin's sight. "See what happens when you distract me? For a minute there, I thought I might actually get through this night without getting shot."

Wes shifted his grip on the blaster and checked its setting with his thumb. "Sorry."

"Set the blaster down, Major Klivian," Markin said. Hobbie laid it between Wes's ankles. "I have two offers for you."

"I don't suppose I have any choice but to listen," Hobbie said.

Markin smiled, but it wasn't an amused smile. "First option, you join Remembrance, record a message we can broadcast to the galaxy, and live. Second option, I shoot you now, we place both your bodies near our present to the Imperial Embassy, and you go down in history as martyrs for justice."

"And if your 'present' just disintegrates us?"

"Oh, we'll make sure to place you far enough from the detonation point that the blast would have killed you while leaving you whole enough for positive identification."

Hobbie shifted his weight slightly, and Wes lined up his aim. "You're not worried about blaster wounds in our chests looking suspicious?"

Markin took a step forward. "Have you ever seen bombing victims, Major Klivian?"

"Yes."

"Me, too. When I was a boy, most of my city was razed to the ground because we didn't want an Imperial garrison built a kilometer away. Bodies littered the streets, including most of my family. No one will notice something as small as a blaster wound."

"How tragic. You must be the only person in the whole galaxy who lost someone to the war. I know Wes and I sure didn't."

Markin nodded slightly, then tilted his head. "Perhaps, but your sarcasm doesn't change the fact that you're—"

"Not listening to this anymore, thanks." Hobbie shifted again, and Wes got ready. "I don't like either of your options. I think I'll pass. Wes?"

"Go," he said.

Hobbie spun and propelled himself away from the stretcher, slamming his back against the wall of the corridor. Markin's blaster tracked him, half an instant behind.

Wes fired. The blast hit Markin in the stomach, and he staggered backward two steps. He tried to bring his blaster back toward Wes, but Wes lifted the barrel, changing his aim, and squeezed the trigger twice more. The shots burned through Markin's chest, and he dropped.

"The service in this hotel sucks," Wes said. "I'm checking out."

Hobbie pushed off the wall and checked the body, then started pulling the stretcher down the hallway at a jog. "Wes? Don't attempt witty one-liners when you've got that many drugs in your system."

"That bad?"

"Pathetic."

* * *

They bumped into half a dozen more people on their way to the speeder bay, but all of them got out of their way when they saw blasters and grim expressions bearing down on them. Hobbie maneuvered Wes's stretcher through the bay toward a blue model with a sizable backseat. Most of the speeders had disappeared, and Hobbie assumed a lot of Remembrance members had already fled. Karoly must have been causing a lot of havoc.

Getting Wes off the stretcher and into the speeder took more time than Hobbie liked, and it was impossible not to jar Wes's many injuries.

"Do you mind if I pass out now?" Wes asked once they got him settled against the seat. He groaned.

"Sure. I think I can handle it from here."

Wes closed his eyes and blindly groped for Hobbie's arm with a hand. "Thanks."

"You think I'm going to let some amateurs with a grudge blow you up two days before you retire?"

Wes's hand slipped into the speeder and he seemed to droop. "Wake me if something interesting happens."

Hobbie grinned. Shoving the stretcher aside, he jumped over the side of the speeder and into the driver's seat, ripping the wiring from the console and twisting it together as quickly as he could. The engine started, and he eased the speeder out of the warehouse. Keeping the ride as smooth as he could, he accelerated down the street, turning corners that would take him toward the center of the city.

He'd checked their tail for the sixth time when his comlink, the cheap one Karoly had bought that first day, vibrated. He yanked it from his vest pocket and flicked it on. "Karoly."

"Are you out?" she asked.

"Yeah. About a klick and a half away."

"Good." There was a pause long enough for her to take a breath. "Derek?"

Hobbie swallowed, something like dread blossoming in his chest. "Don't you dare, Karoly."

"I — what?"

"Don't you dare blow yourself up," he said fiercely, checking to make sure Wes was still unconscious. "They're not worth it."

"What are you talking about? I'm not going to blow myself up. At least, not if I can help it."

"Oh." He turned another corner and saw the lights of Soler's main tourist district ahead. He slowed the speeder. "Right."

"Where did you get that idea?" He heard something on her end bang, a metallic clatter.

"Nothing. Never mind." He could feel his ears burning.

"You can't just wildly accuse me of killing myself and then claim it was nothing." Another bang, a shout, and the distinctive whine of blaster fire.

"Karoly?" Hobbie felt his voice tighten and hoped she hadn't noticed the rise in pitch.

"Hang on." A few more shots, another shout, and silence. "Okay. Tell me."

He pulled the speeder to the edge of the small side street and stopped. Half a block ahead, one of the main avenues glowed in the night. "It's just…"

"Now, Klivian. I've got thirty seconds before things get very interesting here."

He took a breath and let the words out in a rush. "It's just that, historically speaking, when you call me 'Derek,' bad things are about to happen."

He counted seven seconds before she said, "Oh." Then another three before she said, "I was just going to say that this week, with you, was…" She grunted, swore under her breath, and something screeched.

"Karoly?"

"It was nice, Hobbie. Which I know sounds — _shassa_. Here goes." The signal cut off.

Two kilometers behind him, the warehouse exploded. The sky turned orange.


	12. 11

**11.**

Wes devoured the soup a medtech had brought him, pausing just long enough between slurps to ask, "How come you look so miserable? I'm the one who spent a day and a half in bacta."

"Twenty hours is not a day and a half. It's not even a day." Hobbie sat slumped in the small hospital room's only chair. His hair was back to normal, no longer that shade of unnatural black. It was much easier to look at him without bursting into laughter this way.

"Minor detail."

"Do you have to wear that hat?"

"You bought it for me." Wes smiled up at the orange brim. He hadn't taken off the fantastically horrid hat since Hobbie had presented it to him that morning. It matched the X-wing flight suit perfectly, and he'd decided that one of his new hobbies as a civilian would be campaigning Starfighter Command to incorporate it into the uniform. "Answer the question. What's got you so miserable?"

Hobbie shrugged and fiddled with the cuff of his jacket. "I don't know."

Wes looked at him, then set his soup bowl on the table beside his bed. "Yes, you do. You have your specific gloom face on, not the general gloom face you usually wear."

The other pilot tried to glare at him, but the gloom swallowed it before it fully formed, and Hobbie turned his attention back to his cuff. This was serious.

"Well," Wes said, "I'm not dead, so it can't be that. I suppose it could be residual guilt from letting me get kidnapped in the first place, but that's a different face. You hate Soler, so you're not upset about your vacation getting cut short. So unless another catastrophe happened while I was in bacta that you haven't told me about, there's really only one cause for it."

Hobbie gave him a familiar look, one of mixed wariness and resignation, and Wes knew he'd won.

He smiled. "Karoly."

A queer spasm Wes had never seen before crossed his friend's face. "She's gone," Hobbie said quietly.

Wes stopped in the process of reaching for his soup. "Oh, come on. She's not _dead_."

Hobbie frowned. "I know that. But I went to her apartment while you were under, and it was cleaned out. The furniture was still there, and my stuff, but everything of hers was gone. The only thing left was a bottle of dye remover in the 'fresher with a note that said, 'For your hair.'"

"Good girl."

Hobbie straightened in his chair, his jaw tightening. "It's not funny, Wes. She just left. Without—" He dropped his gaze to the cuff of his jacket and started fiddling with its button.

"Without saying goodbye?" Wes asked. "Without pledging her undying love for you?"

"Stop it." Hobbie pushed himself out of the chair and began pacing the room.

"Hmm. You're right. It's not funny at all. But it is fixable." Wes put his arms behind his head and leaned back against his pillows.

The suspicion in Hobbie's face did more for Wes's spirits than any number of gallons of bacta. "You're not setting me up with any of your nurses," he said.

"Definitely not," Wes replied. "I'm keeping them for myself."

He waited for curiosity to win out. It took twelve seconds.

"Then how are you going to fix it?" Hobbie crossed his arms and looked defiant.

"This is the high security ward, you know. Comes with being famous. It also comes with the right to approve or reject guest requests." He watched with a smile as the hope swamped Hobbie. "I only recognized two of the names on my list, and one of them was you. I imagine the rest are reporters dying to interview me."

Karoly had great timing, Wes gave her that. He'd barely finished his sentence when the door to his room swished open and she walked in. He settled back to watch the show.

She smiled at him. "Janson. Nice hat."

He grinned. "Hi, Karoly. Good to see you again. I like your hair. Didn't get to say that yesterday."

"Thanks." Her eyes drifted toward Hobbie, who'd frozen when the door opened and stood gaping at her. Karoly's smile widened, and Hobbie recovered enough to return it.

"I thought you'd left," he said.

Karoly pushed a strand of hair across her forehead. "I had some final details to wrap up, a report to make. Then I spent some time in the Imperial Embassy's bacta tank. I just got out last night."

"Me, too," Wes said. Neither of them paid him any attention. His eyes moved from one to the other, and he felt his smile become a grin. This was _so _much better than he'd hoped.

Hobbie frowned and took half a step toward her. "Bacta? You got hurt?"

"They weren't interested in stunning me, and the range on my detonator wasn't as much as I'd have liked, considering the amount of explosives they'd accumulated."

"I thought, when your comlink cut off—"

"Sorry about that. The explosion fried it, cheap as it was."

They stared at each other for a moment, and Wes stayed very still.

Karoly snapped out of it first and turned toward him. "How are you, Janson? Everything put back together?"

"Mostly. A few places are still sore. You can kiss them better, if you'd like." He winked.

She didn't even roll her eyes, as they were too busy slipping back to Hobbie and then to the floor. Wes wanted to crow.

"Well, I should probably go. My ship leaves soon." She backed toward the door, and Hobbie took a jerky, involuntary step forward. "It's good to see you looking well, Janson," she said, her voice brisk and professional. "And you, Major Klivian."

Wes waved.

The door opened behind her, and she turned.

"Will we see you around?" Hobbie asked, unable to hide his desperation.

Karoly paused halfway through the door and looked over her shoulder. Her gaze flicked over Wes and stopped on Hobbie. "I'm sure."

And then she was gone.

Wes watched Hobbie stand in the middle of the room for several seconds, then back slowly to his chair and sink into it.

"You slept with her!" he declared, wriggling with glee.

Hobbie's entire body twitched, nearly knocking the chair over. "What? No!"

"Then what was all that awkward teenage posturing a moment ago? That was a classic post-pre-combat sex encounter. I've lived through my share, though I handle them a bit better than you. You just need practice."

"I didn't sleep with her!"

Wes waited.

"I might have kissed her a bit."

"Just a bit?"

"Yes," Hobbie said, obviously lying.

"So no pre-combat make-out sessions in her apartment?"

Hobbie looked appalled. "How much have you thought about this?"

"It's boring here."

"I'm going to leave now."

* * *

When Hobbie exited the hospital, Karoly leaned against a square pillar a few meters from the entrance. He paused when he saw her, nearly getting run over by a repulsorchair carrying an elderly woman. After apologizing to the woman for blocking the exit, he walked toward her.

"I thought your ship left soon," he said.

"It does. In about thirty minutes. I wanted—" She stopped. "I should have left ten minutes ago, but I was hoping…I guess I was hoping you'd follow me out."

Hobbie nodded, trying to sort through the mix of disappointment and elation. "What did you mean by 'nice'?"

Her eyes cut away from his for a second. "If you don't know what 'nice' means by this point, Hobbie, I'm not sure I can explain it to you."

"Come on. You're leaving in a minute. You never have to see me again if you don't want to. Just tell me what you meant."

"I never said—" She stopped, took a breath. "I meant this."

She stepped forward and kissed him.

He pulled her closer, glad Wes's window looked out the back of the hospital. She pulled away after a long moment and looked at him.

"If—"

He kissed her again. "If," he agreed.

She smiled and stepped back. "Bye, Derek."

"Bye, Karoly."

She turned and walked away. He watched her go.

* * *

_Coruscant. Galactic Peace Day._

Hobbie tugged at the collar of his dress uniform and watched the diplomats and politicians mill about the state ballroom of the former Imperial Palace. The room sparkled with jewels and military insignia, and his eyes skipped over the crowd, hoping to land on a familiar face.

"Hobbie!"

He jumped and turned to Wedge, who stood next to him. "What? Yes. What?"

Wedge smirked. "I said at least we'll never have to wear these uniforms again. Where were you?"

"Here." Hobbie winced. If he couldn't be more convincing than that, he deserved what came next.

"Well, obviously." Wedge's smirk grew and took on a distinctly wicked twist. Hobbie hated when Wedge got Corellian. "I meant, where was your head?"

Wes bounded up, holding a plate in one hand. He seemed to have piled three of everything from the buffet onto it in a massive mound of food. "Hobbie lost his head? And you're surprised?"

Hobbie glared, but before he could say anything, Wedge continued.

"He's been staring into space for five straight minutes. I haven't been so thoroughly ignored in years."

"Except by Iella," Wes added.

Wedge lifted an eyebrow. "I'm magnanimously choosing to make fun of Hobbie right now, Wes, instead of you, despite how easy it would be after falling off a building and getting yourself kidnapped."

Wes raised the hand not holding his plate. "We're not using the word 'kidnapped.' It implies that I'm a six-year-old."

Wedge blinked at him.

"Which," Wes admitted, "probably wasn't the strongest argument I could have made. Weren't we talking about Hobbie's wandering head?" He popped a cream puff into his mouth.

"What about Hobbie's head?" Tycho asked, walking up to stand next to Wedge. "What'd I miss?"

"Hobbie's acting distracted." Wedge gestured toward the ballroom. "Crowd-gazing rather than acknowledging my scintillating conversational skills. I want to know why."

"Oh, I can answer that," Wes said around a mouthful of meatballs. Hobbie shot him a warning glare, but it bounced off. "He's looking for his girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" Wedge and Tycho echoed, identical looks of surprise on their faces.

Hobbie said, "Wes, I'm going to dump that plate of food over your head, and everyone will believe me when I say you did it yourself."

"You have a_ girlfriend?_" Tycho asked. "Since when?"

"Thank you for acting so surprised," Hobbie grumbled. "And I don't have—"

Wedge held up both hands. "Wait — is it that mystery woman from Soler?"

Wes nodded. "She's hot. Scary, but hot."

Hobbie said, "Please—"

"Not super hot," Wes continued, "but a solid seven-point-five on a scale of ten."

"She's—"

"Scary how?" Wedge asked.

"She could destroy all four of us with her eyes closed and the use of only one of her limbs." Wes held out his plate. "Food? I recommend anything on a stick."

"She's not—"

"You should have seen them at the hospital." Wes wiped a spot of sauce from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "They were so cute. Like little teenage Ewoks trying their mating dance for the first time behind the treehouse."

Wedge groaned. "That is not an image I wanted in my brain, Wes."

Tycho whistled. "And he's this far gone in only, what, a week and a half? Two weeks? That's fast." He looked impressed, which was somehow worse than looking surprised.

Hobbie buried his face in his hands. "I hate you all."

"What?" Wes poked his arm. "Was she supposed to be a secret girlfriend or something? Because that never goes over well. Trust me."

Hobbie lifted his head and shouted, "I don't have a girlfriend!"

A dozen people in the area turned to look at him with startled expressions on their faces. Wes started laughing and choked on a piece of fruit.

Hobbie closed his eyes. "Someone shoot me."

"I can, if you'd like."

"Thanks, Tycho."

"Anytime."

"You might want to hold off killing yourself," Wes said. "Karoly's here."

Hobbie's eyes snapped open. Wes pointed, and Hobbie looked toward the entrance of the ballroom. At the top of the stairs, President Gavrisom stood next to the man Hobbie recognized as Admiral Pellaeon of the Imperial Navy. Leia Organa-Solo stood on Gavrisom's other side, and next to the Admiral stood three men Hobbie took to be Moffs.

Behind and slightly to the left of Pellaeon stood Karoly.

Gavrisom was talking, but Hobbie wasn't paying attention. He watched Karoly's eyes flick around the room, alert and watchful. Jewels sparkled in her hair, and her dress was demure, meant to blend in rather than stand out.

Behind him, his friends held a whispered conversation, which Hobbie tried to ignore.

"Where is she?"

"There — in the brown dress behind the admiral."

"Ah."

"That one?"

"What's her name?"

"Karoly."

"Seven-point-five?

"Solid eight. Wes judges too hard."

"I judge_ conservatively_ because you never know when you're going to meet someone hotter."

"I can't believe the Taanab air fleet wants you to train their pilots. Those poor kids."

"How does my caution in handing out tens to every woman I meet translate into bad teaching skills?"

"It does, somehow. I'm sure of it."

"Maybe it'll make me a better instructor. Ever thought of that? And I've taught before."

"An assignment you didn't keep long, as I recall."

"Knock it off, you two. We have more important things to worry about, like this mystery woman. Why is she up there? Is she supposed to be?"

"Sithspawn. Look where she's standing, just behind and to the side of—"

"She's the admiral's_ bodyguard?_ What was she doing on Soler?"

"Hell if I know. I was unconscious for most of the trip. Ask him."

Karoly's eyes moved across the crowd, and Hobbie waited, hoping she'd see him. He wished he were taller, that he wasn't one uniform among many, that there were less people in the room. Her gaze brushed against him and hovered for an instant. She inhaled, gave him a small smile, and then moved on, doing her job.

His friends' whispers, which had quieted for a moment, burst back into frenzied being. Hobbie realized he was smiling.

"Did you_ see that?_"

"Damn."

"All right, Hobbs!"

"How do you think that'll work? I mean, if she's an Imperial—"

"I don't think she is. I gathered she was more of a work-for-hire type."

"Really?"

"I told you she was scary."

"But still — how does that work?"

"They'll get themselves sorted eventually. Iella and I managed it."

"Yeah, and it only took six years."

"Shut up, Wes."

"Hobbie'd better not take that long. I can't handle the moping."

Speeches done, the figures at the top of the stairs moved down into the ballroom, Karoly sliding forward to take the admiral's arm. They dispersed into the waiting crowd, shaking hands and smiling.

Hobbie turned and faced his three friends, who grinned knowingly at him. "Go vape yourselves," he said. Then he turned and moved toward the front of the ballroom.

Wedge's voice followed him. "Wow, he _does _have it bad."

Hobbie navigated through the conversational groups, shaking off a few well wishers who wanted to congratulate him on his forthcoming retirement. A small orchestra seated in one of the balconies began to play, and a portion of the room filled with twirling couples. Hobbie skirted the edge of the dance floor, his eyes focused on his goal. Admiral Pellaeon was tall, his white hair easy to track through the crowd. As Hobbie moved closer, Karoly's short, dark hair came into view.

He stopped a meter away and waited for the admiral to finish his conversation with a New Republic senator, then cleared his throat. The admiral turned, bringing Karoly with him, and looked at Hobbie with polite interest.

"Good evening."

"Sir," Hobbie said automatically. Something about Pellaeon made him want to salute.

Karoly moved slightly forward and placed her other hand on the admiral's arm as well. He inclined his head toward her, his gaze still on Hobbie. "Admiral, this is Major Derek Klivian. Major, Admiral Gilad Pellaeon."

Recognition flashed in Pellaeon's eyes, and he extended his hand. "Major. Karoly's told me about your part in the events on Soler. Thank you for your assistance."

"My pleasure." He shook the admiral's hand, but he couldn't stop his gaze from sliding toward Karoly. "I wondered, sir, if I might ask your associate to dance."

A hint of a smile touched Pellaeon's face. "I have no objections, Major, but you will have to ask her permission as well."

Karoly looked at Pellaeon, suddenly tense. "Admiral, I'm not sure that's wise. My purpose in being here—"

"Can be adequately filled by Captain Lund for a few hours," the older man interrupted smoothly. "After your work on Soler, I think you deserve a night off. Wouldn't you agree, Major?"

"Yes, sir." Hobbie suppressed a smile.

"But Admiral—"

Pellaeon turned toward the corner of the room, lifted a hand, and a young man in an Imperial uniform moved their direction. The admiral gently removed Karoly's hands from his arm and faced her. "Your concern and dedication to your job are touching, Miss D'ulin, and I have no doubt you will keep half an eye on me all evening anyway, but I'm relieving you of duty for the night. I'll see you at 0900 tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," Karoly said stiffly.

Captain Lund appeared at the admiral's side. "Sir?"

"I wondered if you'd be willing to take Miss D'ulin's post this evening, Captain."

"Of course, sir."

Pellaeon nodded and turned to Hobbie. "Delighted to meet you, Major."

Hobbie straightened to attention. "And you, Admiral."

Pellaeon moved away, Lund at his side, and Hobbie looked at Karoly.

"You know that wasn't about you, right?" she asked.

"I figured, but confirmation is nice."

"Lund's a good kid. He's got good instincts, but he doesn't—" She closed her eyes, then opened them again. "I'm sorry. You don't want to hear about this."

He moved half a step closer. "I don't mind. But I'm more interested in knowing if you'd like to dance."

Karoly turned her head, her eyes following the admiral. "Nothing's changed, Hobbie. I leave tomorrow, go back to work. And after this job I move to another job, and after that job, another. And you—"

He reached out, turned her face toward him, and kissed her. From somewhere behind him came an exultant, "Ha!" and Hobbie made a mental note to hide every last pair of Wes's trousers the next day.

He pulled back and held Karoly's face in both hands so she couldn't look away. "And I'm supposed to buy a cabin in the woods on some remote planet and write my memoirs. I know all that. And I don't care."

"Apparently," Karoly said, the word half gasp.

"All I'm asking is to see you again after this. That's it – I just want to see you again." He paused and searched her face. "Okay?"

Her smile came slowly, but it didn't stop until her entire face shone. "Yes. I'd like that."

"Okay." Hobbie stepped back and held out his hand. "Dance?"

She slipped her fingers through his and followed him to the dance floor.

* * *

The End


End file.
